


Kallisto

by o_antiva



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fereldan politics, Implied Past Trauma, M/M, Party Banter, Tevinter Culture, Worldbuilding, assorted foolishness, bi cullen, catching a dracolisk, the bannorn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2018-11-21 15:16:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11360079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/o_antiva/pseuds/o_antiva
Summary: On a mission to investigate Venatori activity in the hinterlands, Cullen and Dorian are left on their own for several days in the wild.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Demons of the Known Lands worldstate. Standalone in its own right, but takes place after Demons of the Known Lands and The Dreaming Stone.
> 
> I meant for these things to be one-shots but this one feels like it might have more to it. Here you go.

"Ey, Cullen," began Blackwall, somewhat dangerously. "We're all of us friends now, I think, so I've got a question I wanted to ask."

They were on day two of the ride out to Redcliffe, and the commander had just trotted his mare up to the head of the Inquisition line. It was there that Varric's shaggy pony, Blackwall's massive charger, and Dorian's uninspired glueball had formed the vanguard. Of course some of Leliana's people were even further ahead, but you didn't see them. Dorian imagined Charter jumping from tree to tree with a dagger gritted between her teeth. No messing around with that one. 

Cullen looked handsome and lordly in his red and gold armor. A true Fereldan knight. His horse, a sweet little mare, black with a white blaze that looked like a heart. Oh how the maidens would sigh to behold it. The commander gazed about the forest trail with a lofty, leonine look, ever on watch for danger. Joke was on him, as Charter probably knifed every last evildoer half a league out. "Ask your question," he said. 

After a few moments of silence, Blackwall grunted. "I d'know, never mind, then, might be too personal. Sorry." 

"Aw, come on," Varric cut in. "You can't just ask and un-ask like that. We're going to all wonder anyway." 

"Oh, it's likely a sophomoric question as usual," Dorian went on. "You know, he asked Solas if he ever slept with a spirit!" 

Varric chuckled. "Hey, you know he totally did, though," he said with that fun flash in his eye, Varric, the scoundrel.

Laughing, Blackwall tried to protest. "I was only trying to lighten things up," he said. "I've hardly met a more intelligent man, but, damn, if he couldn't take himself any more serious!" 

Cullen presided over this foolishness with unshakeable dignity, though he looked like he was getting a headache, the poor thing. His deep-set eyes showed red, and Dorian didn't know if he'd even slept at the last encampment. His hair didn't look slept-on, now that Dorian knew it didn't look that way naturally.

"Blackwall," sighed the commander at last. "You may as well ask anyway. It will start to annoy me if you don't."

"All right, well." Blackwall cleared his throat. "Don't take this the wrong way."

Varric sat straight with new interest, and the shaggy pony seemed to look askance through its long bangs. Even the trees of the forest seemed to lean in to listen. Dorian felt a twinge of nerves. Oh no. Blackwall couldn't be about to ask... Of course, he'd wondered, himself, but...

Blackwall asked, "You don't, erm, have a glass eye, do you?"

Clearly, this was not the sort of question that either Dorian or Varric had anticipated. They glanced at each other.

With the unflappable grace of someone who has probably seen, heard, and experienced all manner of _weird shit_ , as Master Tethras might have called it, Cullen simply said, "No, Blackwall. I don't wear a glass eye." After a pause, he added, "Why? If one of them looks strange, that happens sometimes. Pay it no mind."

"Oh, no no, your eye's fine, Cullen, a little bloodshot, but they're fine. I meant: did you ever wear an eyepatch, then, uh, for any reason?"

Dorian had no idea what in the world Blackwall was up to. But Cullen knew-- there was a slow comprehension dawning on his face and a slow smile with it. A _sly_ smile.

"Why don't you ask me what you want to ask me," Cullen said, then, in a tone of voice that rippled pleasurably through Dorian. "Don't be bashful."

"I don't know what's about to happen," Varric admitted. "But this has gotta be good. Come on, Blackwall, don't let us down."

"It's about a painting I saw once," Blackwall began, hesitating at first, before a huge grin broke out upon his face. "Cullen! You're a crazy bastard, you know that? You know exactly what I'm talking about, don't you!" 

Cullen only laughed, a rich laugh. It sounded good.

Dorian couldn't help but smile. Of course he suspected a few oddities in the rich inner life of Cullen, whatever that would turn out to be. He was getting the sense of it, that kind of Fereldan proverb, _still waters run deep_. "Well, then, this is quite the turn of events. Care to share with the rest of the party?"

"Right, so. Years back. I'm standing in the hall of an Orlesian comte. Over the fireplace from mantle to ceiling is this giant painting--"

Cullen cut in with, "The comte de Rochereau?" in a rather offhanded tone of voice.

"The very same."

"I hadn't known he was still alive," Cullen mused, his face unreadable as an Orlesian mask. "How is his health?"

"I've got so many questions now." Blackwall pressed his riding gloves to his brow.

Dorian swooped in. "No, no, please continue. The painting."

"The painting is of Cullen, wearing an eyepatch, a fierce look, and a strategically placed lion helmet."

Dorian raised an eyebrow. " _How_ strategically?" he asked.

Blackwall chuckled. "It got the job done."

Varric beamed ear to ear. "Oh, oh nooo," he said. "Oh, I heard about this! It-- it _is_ real!" He turned to Dorian with a look of splendiferous delight. "Hawke and Isabela swore they saw a Crazy Naked Cullen painting at a Hightown auction once. They bid viciously for it, of course, but... some Antivan dived in for the winning bid. I didn't see it myself at the time, I was in Jader, but, damn!"

Cullen pretended to be above it all now, simply riding along. "Blackwall... how long did you want to ask me about this? The entire time?"

"No, well. It was at Haven. The battle. Red templars swarming down from the hills... I knew we would all die. You were shouting from the stockade walls, and then you pulled on that lion helmet. It was like _lightning hit me_. I remembered where I'd seen you before."

Dorian melted with laughter now. A surge of pure delight. "Oh no," he said. "I suppose the ancient darkspawn magister would hardly wait a few minutes for you to clear things up with dear Cullen." 

Blackwall shook with a chuckle of his own. "No, no, s'pose not. Wouldn't have a sense of humor about it at all, Corypheus."

Varric grinned. "Oh, nah, the Tevinters are all babies about that stuff. You woulda made him uncomfortable. Hey, there's an idea for later..."

Cullen laughed again. He seemed so easy-going about so strange a topic. Dorian was enchanted, if not entirely baffled.

"Am I going to be the one to ask the obvious question now?" said Dorian.

"The painting is called _L'allégorie du Guerre_ ," Cullen explained. "He is meant to represent one of the old Ciriane gods. Forgive the disappointment, but it is not actually me. That was my kinsman, a chevalier." 

A collective _oh_ passed over the party.

"I'm sorry I asked," Dorian replied. "It was more fun with the mystery left to it."

Blackwall shook his head. "You really had me, Cullen. Instant you started to grin like that, I thought, here we go. Knew he had something crazy bubbling up beneath."

Varric squinted at Cullen, half in study, half in thought. "Your kinsman," he said. "Stanton? Was that the name?" 

"It was. He was my uncle."

Blackwall raised his eyebrows, and he shared a look with the dwarf. "Now it's clear," he said. "Stanton the Treacherous!"

"He was called such, by some," Cullen replied with great dignity. "But he could no longer fight for Orlais when she turned against his homeland." 

Blackwall turned to Dorian. "Stanton was a renowned chevalier. Mad as hell! Life of the party! A Fereldan by blood, but he'd earned rare honor as a knight. He switched sides in the uprising."

Varric called up the story from somewhere deep in his memory. "Stanton had a change of heart when he oversaw the hanging of some of the rebels. Starving, desperate men standing on the gallows. Crows gathering. Then one of the men began to sing. It was an old Fereldan song... " 

"Oh, now," Dorian said, "that _is_ a good story."

Cullen smiled. "I never knew Stanton," he said. "He died at the Battle of River Dane, long before I was born. I'm told I resemble him."

Blackwall nodded toward the helmet fastened to Cullen's saddle. "Is that it, then? Is that the one?"

"No, it's not the same one. I imagine it's to be found somewhere in a riverbed. He had a set of helmets. My sister sent me this one after I'd left the templars." Cullen looked off into the woods, eyes narrow. "I'm surprised any of those paintings survived, to be honest. I would have thought them destroyed, but I suppose some still held respect for Stanton and his decision."

"Well, the comte de Rochereau certainly seemed to," remarked Blackwall.

"I'm to understand they were quite close," Cullen replied easily. "It is good to hear that he might still honor Stanton's memory."

Dorian thought this terribly interesting. 

Varric was grinning. "Hey," he said. "This is good. This here. Just, you know, riding along, telling stories."

"Varric," Cullen said, after a moment of scrutiny. "I better not find Hawke running around the camp."

"Hey, hey, I told you, I don't know where she is."

"You know I never believe you when you smile that like."

"It's, it's an automatic response. I can't help it." Varric grinned even wider than before. "Shit. I swear. I don't know. Look, let's just enjoy the moment, huh. You're so paranoid, relax."

Blackwall's eyes gleamed with fun, but they were also kind. "Right, then, Cullen. Just the three of us here. Nobody who works for you, so you can let your hair down, as it were."

Cullen looked almost as though he might smile, his eyes lowering. The goodwill seemed to touch him, but he brushed off that warmth soon enough. "Well," he said, clearing his throat, "don't let your guard slip. We're here on business, and the Venatori are still out there." With that, he clicked softly and turned his mare, trotting off to rejoin the main body of the soldiers.

Varric watched him go. "Man, almost," he said.

Dorian hadn't known what to think when he'd realized Cullen and the three of them were bunched together for a mission. He wondered if young Maxwell had done this on purpose. He had all the cunning and guile of a dribbling toddler, which is what he looked like to Dorian, frankly, an adorable and innocent baby mage. In truth, Dorian felt kindly toward him, even protective. As an example of esteemed Tevinter lineages and magical pedigrees, he'd joked on the matter of the original Trevelyan, who had split off from the Peacock House so long ago. A mistake perhaps to mention it-- Maxwell's eyes had grown the size of dinner plates, and he had demanded breathlessly that they be cousins. 

So now he supposed that dear Cousin Maxwell was paying someone a favor here in this lineup. Was it Blackwall and Varric, to bandy about and talk about the tourney? For them to go off and play red lyrium together? Was it to bestow upon Cullen a group of people who weren't in his control, as Blackwall had shrewdly deciphered? Was it to mend the relationship between Varric and Cullen, a relationship that might have once been considered antagonistic-- after all, hadn't Cullen played the villain of Varric's story up until the climax? 

Dorian was never one to make everything about himself-- oh, all right, some of the things-- but he couldn't shake the feeling that Maxwell was trying to contrive reasons for Dorian and Cullen to spend more time together. They were developing a kindly if unusual friendship between them, no need to worry on that front, but Maxwell seemed like an impatient child with a doll in each hand, fervently smooshing them together. Dorian didn't know what to think, only that if he lingered on such ideas, his stomach turned itself to knots.

The journey went without incident and it was, Dorian thought, even beautiful. The changing season brought new life into the woods, and all around them the trees seemed a canopy of green. There were kinds whose names he didn't know, and birds sang and whistled somewhere ahead of their passing. A nug crossed the trail with three of its offspring, snuffling and wrinkly, innocent of everything. The path took them through the ancient majesty of oaks and maples, huge trees that must have been old even in the time of Calenhad, when the barbarians banded together to forge themselves a nation.

They were still a wild people, Dorian thought. It was there in the blood, like a dog that remembers the wolf. The Fereldans were a blunt people, but you knew what they were about. You never had to wonder. 

The path descended through a series of switchbacks and impressive drops, which Dorian could not appreciate from the swaying back of a recalcitrant horse. He kept his eyes steady, and his hand firm upon the reins, but in his mind he tallied distance and made himself ready to cast a barrier. From boyhood stunts he knew just how far he could fall, but he'd no wish for that foolishness.

At last the road rejoined the remnant of the Imperial Highway, still in good shape after all of this time. The farmlands rolled before them, and a ram went flashing white away into the fields. The sun was coming low then and all was red and amber. From the Crossroads the strains of music reached out to them, and cooking smells wafted from the fires.

Over mutton stew came the news about camp. Few updates with the Venatori. They had abandoned an encampment further in toward Hafter's Wood. Leliana's people were combing through it now. The bandits had moved on, and trade had resumed. There was tea now in Redcliffe. There were only two items of news that seemed of any interest in the Crossroads camp: the discovery of some kind of love affair between a mage and a templar, and the sighting of the dracolisk.

Dorian wished to ask about the latter, although he was treated to much gossip first about the former. At length he was told that the dracolisk had come out of the forest to the east, that it was a big blue warty-looking thing, that it was so bone-thin its saddle slipped around on it. The poor thing had been harnessed for whoever knew how long, its rider never to return. Some of the scouts had tried to catch it, and one of the elves almost talked it into their arms, but something sent it rearing up with a flash of clawed feet. Off it went pitching into the wood, and that was the last they knew of it.

It was too dark to go searching now. Dorian could see by light of his own, but he didn't know what good he would do. He couldn't find it on his own. The rangers and trackers of the camp had threaded forward in the wild, off in search of the enemy forces. Most likely, the dracolisk would attempt to come back, and Dorian would call it to him then, the poor thing. 

Sleep was hard to come by. Varric and Blackwall were locked in some endless tourney conversation, even after two days on the road together, so Dorian went off to find other accommodations. He thought he'd picked a good tent, but the mages in it seemed to want to whisper into the evening. Dorian couldn't make it out when they spoke their language very low, but the chief object of the gossip, oh, he'd harbored his suspicions. They gave it away when someone hissed, and there was a shuffling in the dark, as though they were peering over to see if Dorian were awake.

He didn't bother to try to learn what exact species of gossip he was being treated to. His being Tevinter-- his strange customs? His flaunting of power? His corruption of the young prophet? His inevitable betrayal? Or was it more a base rumor, on the nature of his predilections? Yet for much of his life he'd heard far worse said about him, so it only wearied him, like the tutor who hears the children whispering. 

He really ought to have chosen the storage tent. At least crammed in with the crates, sacks, and bags, he could be free for now of the prattle. No place to stretch his legs, though, and they cried out after such a long ride.

Time passed-- he must have almost slept?-- when a sound primed his attention. He lay blinking into nothingness a moment, trying to separate the sound from dream or reality. There it was again, and Dorian whispered into the darkness of the tent: "Did anyone hear that?" and someone with the sleepiest Rivaini accent answered back, "Someone sick from drink," or words of similar effect. Well yes, that might be it, but Dorian felt the pull of instinct. He rose and stepped over legs and arms and shoulders in the tent.

Dorian recognized the sound the way you recognized a person from their walk, or the motion of their hand, or how their shirt smells. You just know, after spending time with someone in close quarters. Sure enough, the deep wracking cough, the dry-heaving, it was Cullen, who had staggered some length away from the tents by now. He hadn't gotten too far, on bended knee, leaning against a birch with his forehead pressed to the bark.

For a moment, the fear of poison flared throughout Dorian: he remembered the banquets and galas he'd attended, the ones where rivals and enemies came together to smile and drink and set aside their differences. And if someone was sick, and died of sickness? Well, who could really be certain what had actually happened...

In a hushed voice, Dorian called his name. The shaggy blond head didn't lift. He thought he heard the words, "Leave me."

"I only want to know if you're all right."

"I'm fine." It sounded pathetic. Dorian felt like the mother bird hearing the peep of its chick.

Dorian drew closer to him, a dim wisp of light held in his hand to see by. Cullen was out of his armor, wearing only the gambeson beneath it, and trews which were muddied now upon the knees. He still wore his boots. Had he been trying to sleep when he was sick? Did he sleep with those on? He sensed that Cullen would respond poorly if he felt pitied, so, Dorian kept his voice neutral, a distant curiosity, as if chancing across a drinking companion who has done something silly to himself.

"Well, then," he said. "Is this something that happens to you often?"

Cullen only nodded, his eyes screwed shut, his mouth a drooling grimace.

"I'll bring you water."

"It's... going away."

Dorian fetched a skin of water for him, and upon his return, he saw Cullen seated with his back against the tree now. His shoulders and arms lay skewed about like a puppet's limbs. Without a word, he stared at the offered skin a time, and then he reached out to take it. He rinsed his mouth first.

"I hope you're feeling better," Dorian said. He knelt in a crouch, not wanting to touch any more of his body or clothing to the mud if possible.

"Doesn't last long." Cullen sounded ancient. "Thank you."

When their eyes met, Dorian smiled. "The Lion of Fereldan, coughing up his hairball." 

Cullen gave him half a rotten look. Couldn't muster up the full strength of it, but, then, it didn't seem as though he'd borne any true malice. For a while he just sipped at the waterskin. Life returned rapidly to his features. "I... just... sometimes I wake up very dizzy, it's all right."

"Does your horse make you sea-sick?" Dorian ventured mischievously. "Mine does, I swear it. He goes swaying about, it's all nonsense."

Cullen's head lolled back against the bark, and he looked at Dorian with a faint grin. "We could requisition you a stick-horse, if you prefer." 

"Who knows, I might accept that offer."

"Go to bed, Dorian."

"Perhaps. I've chosen the second-worst tent. All gossip and whispers and tickles in the dark. A veritable slumber party."

Cullen snorted. "That is why I'm sleeping in the storage tent."

"What! What of your very important commander tent?"

"That is the first place the enemy would go."

"You're paranoid, my dear."

"Tell me it isn't true."

Dorian's legs were starting to burn from crouching so long, and he stood, rubbing his thigh just above the knee. Coming to full height, his rising eyeline captured a wink or glimmer of something in the dark beyond the mucky stand of birches. "I see something," he whispered.

"Dorian." Cullen sounded flat.

"No no," Dorian said. "I'm not mocking you-- although it was the perfect time to do so, I admit." 

Cullen drew on his reserves and stood. There was a knife in his hand, somehow. Drawn from the boot? "Animal's eyes," he said.

With building excitement, Dorian cleared his throat and spread his wisp of light, its hue a greenish glow. He called out gently but firmly in Tevene. From the corner of his eye, he saw the tension shift out of Cullen's posture.

"Your dracolisk?" he whispered.

Dorian entreated once more to the shining eyes in the darkness beyond. He hoped that he could present himself as a friend to the beast hovering at the edge of the wood. He hoped he could appeal to it with Tevene words and display of magic, especially in welcoming light.

"It must have seen you using magic," Cullen said softly to him. He sheathed his knife, tucking it back into its home in his boot. He remained at the ready, however, firm and responsive. Intelligent though it was, the dracolisk still presented the danger of any horse.

Dorian had just begun to speak to it again-- 'poor thing' and 'come here'-- when it overtook his words with a piteous warble, its voice neither reptile nor bird, something alien all of its own.

A dull splashing came as the dracolisk padded out of the wood and over the shallow brook, its long neck lowered as it approached the birches where they stood. It was a blue shadow of a creature, green-tinged in the light, and it looked bone-thin, frightened, defeated. Its forked tongue flickered out to test the air.

 _Oh, look at you, come here,_ Dorian told it gently in Tevene. _You poor thing. I see you asking yourself, why is everyone being such a big bastard to me? You don't know why you're here, only that it's cold, and muddy, and everybody shouts at you when they see you._

In response to the warmth of compassion in his tone, the dracolisk made a whiny, moany sound, as if to say, 'why yes, yes that's right, everyone's being such a cock!' 

"Dorian," Cullen whispered. "Do you want me to reach out for his halter?"

"Not yet," Dorian replied. "They're more intelligent than a horse... but just as skittish. Smart enough to be anxious all the time. Let him come on his own. I don't want you to grab his halter or reins, only to be kicked or bitten."

"Right. What do you need me to do?"

"Look friendly and less mean."

"I _am_ friendly."

"Not when you say it like that... "

The dracolisk came closer, and Dorian could see the gashes kicked into it by a rider's spurs. It spoke to the character and horsemanship of the cultist who had owned him. Dorian reached out a flat hand and waited. From the corners of his eyes, he saw Cullen tense, as much with concern as a kind of excitement. Even living in the Free Marches, Cullen had likely never seen such a creature before, or at least so close.

The leathery muzzle dropped toward his hand. A forked blue tongue took his scent. Cullen seemed to think this bizarre, yet fascinating. At this distance, the smell of the dracolisk could be detected, that weird smell that would always remind Dorian of one of his mother's leather coats left too long in a hot wardrobe. Not bad. Just weird.

Its head cocked to one side, the dracolisk considered Dorian's overtures for friendship. Then, all at once, startling Cullen-- the dracolisk butted its warty, knobby, ugly head into Dorian's chest, and it let out a pathetic sound like a chicken which has swallowed a slide whistle.

 _Oh, I know,_ Dorian told it with great feeling, embracing that horrible warty head and neck. Sensing a sympathetic audience, the dracolisk warbled, chittered, whined, and moaned, as if it were telling him all about the injustices it had endured. Cullen watched them in open amazement. Then his look sharpened, and he communicated swiftly to someone just out of sight. _Stay back,_ his look said.

Dorian became aware that some of the people of the camp had come to have a look at the goings-on. Harmless curiosity, of course. Lured in by the light of Dorian's wisp, and then by the vocalizations from the dracolisk. Unfortunately, the tension that rippled through his frame was felt by the animal, who yanked its head up.

He'd just gotten a hold on the reins when the dracolisk spooked. It reared back, and Dorian held, hoping to stay firm. He spoke to it quickly, no no no, it's all right, that sort of thing.

Cullen knew it was too late, however. "Let go, Dorian!"

The dracolisk danced about. Though the talons on its feet were blunt, they could open a man with a single kick. He didn't think the dracolisk wanted to hurt him, but it was deeply afraid, and Dorian knew anything could happen. His efforts to calm it now failed, and he let go, as Cullen pulled him back by the shoulders. 

As if betrayed, the dracolisk bounded off into the night, caterwauling all the while. Someone tried to race down the bank after it, but Cullen stopped him with a sharp word. He dispersed them back to their tents with instructions not to approach the dracolisk. Leave it to Lord Dorian and Lieutenant Aclassi.

"So close," said Dorian.

"He'll come back," Cullen said, "now that he knows you are here. The stables are here. I'll raise the issue with the arl tomorrow, so that his men know to leave it alone."

Dorian's pout melted perfectly into a facetious smile. "Oh, I can't wait to be paraded in front of the bannorn as _the Good Tevinter_." 

"It's not like that." Cullen shook his head. "You're the Evil Tevinter, anyway, everyone knows that."

"It's the mustache, isn't it. I like to look like I'm up to something. A little bit of flair."

Cullen smirked. "Go to bed, Dorian." He hesitated, adding, "And-- thank you. I'm sure we'll catch your dracolisk."

Dorian stood looking at him in the dim light, his weary, earnest look. His muddy clothes. He thought of bundling up Cullen and the dracolisk both. Poor, sad creatures, the both of them. Not to worry, Dorian is here. 

"Well," he declared, "as we are dealing with a fellow Tevinter, we can get to him through food. I know that much."


	2. Chapter 2

Dorian met the day with a frigid dunking in the river. He knew he’d regret it, of course, but he hated not bathing more. Besides he was in need of a bit of a cold bath, judging from the state he awoke in. Now he was properly clean and coiffed for his reception at the castle, and he was touching up his shave when Josephine found him. She hardly made a sound for someone wearing so many ruffles and stiff lace. In fact, he would have missed her presence entirely if he hadn't seen her in his hand-mirror. He was levitating the mirror in front of him, the merest of everyday tricks in Tevinter... although from the notice it attracted among some members of the camp, you would have thought it the grandest of spectacles.

Josephine made a dainty sound to announce her presence. "Good morning, Lord Dorian."

"My lady Josephine,” he said. “You look exquisite." 

"Thank you. I came to take you personally to the castle."

"I find your presence so reassuring," he told her. "You remind me of the family spymaster. She was Antivan, as well. A wonderful lady."

Josephine laughed.

"I never saw her kill anyone, but it was amazing how our enemies would disappear."

"Mere coincidence, I am sure."

Grinning, Dorian plucked the mirror from thin air. "That's the spirit!"

As they walked together through the morning camp, arm in arm, Josephine set the stage for the meeting at the keep. She explained that Arl Teagan was mustering the forces of the bannorn in order to restore peace in the hinterlands. The Inquisition troops would continue training with the Fereldan soldiers, and it was Josephine's hope that working and living side-by-side would ease Ferelden's fears of an Orlesian takeover. 

Dorian wanted to know if the mages would be ready yet for their debut in Ferelden, this time with Inquisition livery. On this point, anyone else might have hesitated, but the good lady Montilyet had a smooth answer at the ready. She explained how the Inquisition mages were responding to Venatori mischief in the west, where the Orlesian forces-- entrenched in their civil war-- could not protect. 

Josephine noted, "The crown still holds a measure of compassion for the mages, but the fighting wreaked havoc among the fields and homes of the common people."

It went without saying that the Ferelden nobility must be considered also. 

"So we don't want to test them again," Dorian said. "Of course. Though, hmm, it doesn't allow Fiona's people to set things right, does it?"

"They will, in time." 

"In Tevinter, the wants and needs of the 'common man' mean very little. It is the nobility that the ruler must keep satisfied... or contained."

Josephine smiled thinly. "I do not doubt that the king and queen hold a deep concern for their people. But you would be correct; the continued allegiance of the banns and lords is a pressing matter. Though King Alistair is well-loved by most, and Queen Anora is highly regarded, there are those who point to the lack of an heir... and there are those that would say Alistair should return to the Grey Wardens... and that Anora is a traitor."

"Well, of course there's always going to be someone who wants a coup. It wouldn't be politics otherwise."

"Once we've allayed the fears of invasion, and once the bannorn finds itself stretched thin, we could then offer to help with our new mages."

Dorian gave a cynical laugh. "Ah, yes," he said. "The time-honored tradition of letting someone get their way, only to watch them struggle and fail, just as you thought they would."

"I wish it was not so," Josephine admitted, "but you know as well as I that these things... follow a certain way."

Their eyes met, and he saw an old soul looking back at him. Dorian patted her arm. "I wish I knew your secret," he said. "The one that lets you see and understand the inner workings of all this pettish nonsense, and yet somehow you remain optimistic and determined."

"There is no secret," she replied. "Only hard work and trust in my allies."

"Pooh. I thought you would say heavy drinking. That's mine, by the way."

Josephine smiled at him and squeezed his arm. "Now, just be your charming self, but behave yourself with the Fereldans. They are a very frank people. I will tell you who's who and run you through some questions as we go... "

The good Lady Montilyet had in mind to ride the way over, and Dorian supposed he couldn't talk her out of it. Not with those ruffles. Not with those shoes. So with reluctance he had the stable boy fit out his horse again, and the bay gave him a withering look as the girth straps were buckled. 

Dorian took him by the halter and looked into his eye. "With any luck," he said, "you'll soon be free to faff about on Dennet's farm. We've only to keep up this farce a bit longer."

The bay whisked his tail and Dorian thought, _he's going to throw me off in the castle courtyard, I just know it._

Josephine bounded up on an Antivan hotblood, a stallion that looked formed from black silk. Its wavy mane fell in cascades, and it shivered with raw power. It was Dorian's opinion that Varric should make this horse the hero of his new romance novel. Off they went, and Josephine rode like a master, her steed a gleaming majesty of illustrious pedigree. Dorian's mount found its way toward Redcliffe like a drunk bumbling home from a party. 

Though he wouldn't say so out loud, at least within earshot of any Fereldan person, Dorian thought the castle looked more interesting in its Dark Future aesthetic. That whole 'spiraling into the Fade' look did wonders for the dumpy architecture. Really opened it up. Created visual interest. Dorian was to understand that there had been a conquest-era fort here long ago, before the barbarians slapped up rock upon rock to jumble up the present monstrosity. Just looking at it, he knew he wasn't going to like his stay here, bricked up with all the suspicious banns and lords. Worse, in close quarters he would have to smell them.

Hopefully he could say his bit and slip away. Of course everyone had stressed to him that this was _completely voluntary_ on his part, but he knew better than to blow off the arl. Put on a good face for Tevinter, caution them about the Venatori, and make sure they don't destroy any magical artifacts they might discover.

Cullen was crossing swords with some brash young pup in the courtyard. A throng of soldiers watched from both sides. Dorian liked to think that he captured Cullen's full attention, of course, as the good commander turned his head as they rode in. The young pup seized on the moment to strike, but Cullen did a thing. Dorian didn't know the particular way of putting it, but Cullen dodged, stomped on the lad's instep, and took the sword from his hand. Easy as you like. And then of course he handed it back, pommel up, in a gesture of grave respect. Dorian heard the young nobleman whine something like, "It's not fair" or "That's not fair," but they were on to the stables before Cullen made his reply.

Likely, "Life isn't fair." The motto of House Rutherford.

They regrouped in the grand foyer, Josephine fussing over Cullen as he approached. He looked like hell, anyone could see that, but Dorian thought there was a certain rugged honesty there that his countrymen would surely appreciate. 

A retainer appeared to greet and escort them, a brusque man in his middle fifties. He wore a red doublet that had seen better days, and his graying beard was cut tight to a square jawline. An old facial scar pinched when he frowned at them. "Well, you're all here then," he said. "Lady Montilyet. Cullen. Tevinter."

Dorian wanted to make a remark but he could feel Cullen's eyes like a pair of lead weights. He gave the man-- the steward?-- a courteous smile instead. He imagined this fellow hewing through lines of Orlesian soldiers in their civil war all those years ago. And with that same sword at his hip.

Back home, when clients or vassals presented themselves before their lords, they were brought to a chamber specifically designed to impress and intimidate them. White marble, gold ornaments, statuary, slaves. A place of power. In their ancestral palace in Qarinus, Father liked to have his chair set against the backdrop of a conquest mural from the pagan days. Halward had good taste and an even temperament by Tevene standards, but the message of the artwork was always clear. 

Now that Dorian had a moment to take in the Redcliffe throne room without impending doom, he could appreciate the overall look. They made you trudge up to the dais with the roaring fireplace behind the throne, a fireplace big enough for a man to walk into. Then they made you look at those snarling canine statues that flanked the platform. They really tell you who's top dog.

The throne stood empty, and a variety of banns and lords were grousing among themselves at the long tables of the lower hall. Not much of their attire or heraldry gave you the notion of who was what, but Josephine had told him the appearance and symbols of the important ones to remember. There were a few faces that piqued his interest: an elven woman of perhaps forty years of age, silver threaded into her red hair, who met his gaze with cool regard. Bann Shianni Tabris of Denerim-- raised to nobility by request of one of the heroes of Ferelden, who asked a boon of the queen. There were also an assortment of people who looked more traditionally Rivain than Fereldan.

Cullen was regarded with some curiosity. Dorian did not think the Fereldans anything other than a blunt sort of people, but there was a kind of subtlety that rippled through the proceedings. Dorian wondered if Cullen might have kinsmen here in the hall, a father, or a brother, perhaps. Didn't the lords of the south send their extra sons into the Chantry?

The steward announced them. No elaborate nonsense. The talk died down, and there was almost silence but for the sound of a jingling collar as a dog scratched its fleas.

Cullen leaned in to him and whispered, "You'll do fine-- and if you prefer to leave, it is your right to do so, and I back you up in every way." 

Arl Teagan Guerrin entered from the private corridor off the left. Dorian remembered fighting a sloth demon there, its greasy bulk blocking the entry. The lords and ladies stood for him, and he clapped his eye over the crowd with a quick upward nod. Hardship aged him beyond his years, and though Dorian could see that he had once been very handsome, Teagan's face shone now only with impatience. Josephine told Dorian about the tragedy that unfolded here, when the power of an ancient demon had been channeled through a child.

"Inquisition," Arl Teagan said.

Cullen went right into it, very Fereldan of him. "My lord arl," he said. "On behalf of the Inquisitor, I thank you for the men and supplies that Redcliffe has provided to us."

Teagan sat back on his throne. "I hope we will have no cause to regret that,” he said.

"The matter of the breach concerns us all,” Cullen replied. “Ferelden has suffered much in the last decade, but without a concentrated effort against the enemy, all is lost.” 

The arl heaved a sigh. “I realize this,” he said. “And there’s never a good time for anything. I look forward to fighting alongside your men, Ser Cullen." 

"And I yours," Cullen replied.

Josephine met Dorian's eyes, and he smiled. "My lord Arl, you have requested to meet our Tevinter ally, who was instrumental in freeing the castle from Venatori control. May I present Lord Dorian of House Pavus in Qarinus."

Dorian was aware of Teagan's appraisal, the arl's thick brows low over narrowing eyes. "You have our gratitude for the part that you played in this, but I admit to some curiosity as to why you have come to our lands."

"The whiskey, for one.”

One of the nobles snorted in the gallery. One of those great big ladies. But Teagan did not look amused.

“It was the right thing to do,” Dorian continued. “They speak of a glorious return of ancient Tevinter, yet when I look at them, all I see are the rejects and cast-offs from our circles. Worst of all they’ve no sense of irony, which is not something I could ever forgive. Watch them rally behind the one who destroyed the imperium in the first place— and the world. A disaster for everyone. I cannot allow them to go about their nonsense again.”

The practicality of the statement seemed to appeal to Teagan, who had no way of knowing Dorian’s inner thoughts. Dorian didn’t expect the man to be moved by promises of goodwill; keep it short and smart. “A fair point,” said the arl after a moment. “Now tell us about the dark vision that you and the Inquisitor experienced. This future where Corypheus had his way. I want to know about that.”

"Thank you. I know that you all have questions, and I'll be perfectly happy to address them later." Dorian wasn't-- it was always excruciating to break these things down for the layman, but then, he did know it might help to allay their fears. "This is a complex matter, of course, but to simplify it, the Inquisitor and I were able to see the evolution of Corypheus' plan if he were left unchecked. He seeks to destroy the nations of Thedas, to turn them against one another, and to mop up the survivors with some kind of demon army. The breach grows in power, but it was never in his control-- ultimately, the veil unravels everywhere and demons pour through. Even Corypheus is at a loss to contain it, and he turns upon his followers as the world disintegrates around him."

The nobles were murmuring to each other in the gallery. A dog whined somewhere.

He didn’t know what to expect from the arl, if Teagan’s eyes would glaze over at the talk of magic that was, admittedly, beyond even the realm of usual power. You could confuse even senior mages once you left behind the strictures of conventional magic and wisped away into the swirling mists of the theoretical. Yet the lined face of the arl showed a grim respect for the coming dangers, his hard eyes reflecting an acceptance of Dorian’s answer. “How much time do we have?” Teagan asked.

"Never enough." Dorian gave an elegant shrug. "There is no way to know with so many variables. The vision showed us a world one year from now. Perhaps we have less time. Perhaps we are able to buy ourselves more. By all rights, we should have died at Haven, but even the full might of the Venatori and the Red Templars could not destroy us." 

Dorian caught Josephine glancing his way; she gave him a look of approval. Good to end on a positive note. Bring everyone together. Why he just knew they would ask him all manner of silly questions later, they’d want to come poking his chest and challenging him individually, and worse, they’d probably want to see a magic trick— but it looked done for now, a half-dozen conversations rumbling lowly around him. 

And then, a ringing voice: “ _Traitor._ ”

A young lord emerged from a crowd that parted for him. He looked right from the pages of one of Varric's swashbucklers; perfectly muscled, broad shoulders, slim hips, a quick sort of build that matched his weapon of preference. Unlike the huge two-handers that some of his fellow countrymen tended toward, this man had the look of a true swordsman, and his gloved hand hovered at the silver basket-handle of his rapier. His black hair fell in black waves, and a vivid scar divided his astonishingly handsome face. He was outfitted in green and blue, wearing a device of two spears, which Dorian had seen before and didn't remember why it was important just then. He was a leopard amidst a court of dogs, and he padded up dangerously on boots of pliable Antivan leather. 

Cullen bristled and went in to intercept him at once. They met in the center of the grand chamber and the newcomer circled, unafraid, the firelight glowing on his scarred face. Dorian stood outside this blaze of fury, of course; it would take far greater disturbances to merit so much as a blink from him. The cutthroat politics of Minrathous made one either dead or inured to court drama thereafter. Yet if anything he had to admit toward curiosity and more than a little pleasure at the unfolding events, the fierce young interloper and Cullen, of all his people, his would-be defender. 

Maker have mercy. It had become interesting at last.

”He’s a traitor to his own people,” said the young swordsman in a thrilling voice of pure malice, and Arl Teagan shouted over him, “ENOUGH,” his face contorted in anger like the snarling dog statues.

“He’s betrayed his own kind,” the young swordsman continued, his voice growing in power. “You can never trust a traitor. We’re nothing to him.”

Dorian looked at the staring faces all around him, grinned, and said, “I wish I had a drink!” Out of the hush, the Fereldans suddenly began to talk again. Dorian had to admit that the point seemed a sound one, of course— there was a blunt tribalism to it that he supposed would strike a chord in these southerners. There were a few, at least, whose grim faces revealed an affinity for the young man’s way of thinking. They were undoubtedly his allies or his handlers. He noted the young pinch-faced nobleman that Cullen had bested in the courtyard. 

Cullen’s sheer presence edged the young leopard back, but there was a quickness to him, an energy that the weary commander did not possess. Still, Dorian wagered the handsome young man was about to be divested of his teeth. A blow from Cullen’s gauntlet looked a very near possibility, and the gallery was full of onlookers whose riveted attention meditated upon that future.

The arl motioned to his guards, but Dorian pitched his voice: “Wait!” 

There was a rising tangle of voices in the gallery now. 

Reasonably, humorously, Dorian smiled and said, “Wait, please. I want to hear what he has to say.”

Cullen gave him what you’d call a bitchy look, but Josephine had smoothed her feathers over again. “My arl,” she intoned softly but firmly, in a voice that carried, “I am aghast at the insult paid to the Inquisition, who has done its best to restore peace to your land. Nevertheless, if Lord Aedan has a point to make, then let him make it.”

Ah, Josephine, now she knew the right of it. 

“Dorian’s not on trial here,” Cullen snapped. 

Dorian relished the savage note in that voice. He couldn’t recall a time that someone had ever defended him so unreservedly. Even Alexius had been careful and measured in the way that he managed the balance of his political affiliations. Yet he didn’t have the time to draw out his satisfaction; he showed his hand in a staying gesture. “Thank you, commander,” he said, and turned smoothly to meet the staring eyes in Fereldan faces all about him, “but if you have questions, I’d prefer you ask them instead of leaving them to fester.”

The young leopard of a man— Aedan, that was his name— his face turned and Dorian wondered instantly how that lip scar would feel crushed against the nape of his neck. Their eyes met, and Dorian understood at once that this was no outburst of a callow youth; there was a measured cunning in his gaze. He knew he wouldn’t win any argument here, that very soon the liveried guards of Redcliffe would walk him out. His true weapon were the cut of his words and the seeping poison they would inflict. He had come here to sabotage not only Dorian but the Inquisition, and most of all, the crown. 

It made Dorian feel so much at home.

“You raise a good point, actually,” he said then to his detractor. “One should be careful. Yet the Venatori are not— and were never— my people, and in fact, I could hardly betray a venous, nasty pack of bastards who hated me to begin with, some of who have worked energetically and tirelessly to destroy my house and my ideals.”

“Their leader here, Alexius Geryon,” continued Aedan, his next move shining in his eyes. “You knew him! You helped him in the past. That is how you knew how to defeat him here. He was your ally and you turned against him.”

“Alexius Geryon turned against me,” Dorian replied, “and he turned against his son, himself, and his own principles.”

Arl Teagan stood at last. “This has gone on long enough,” he said. “Be gone, Aedan.” 

Dorian saw from his face that the young lord knew he wouldn’t win, but a clear victory wasn’t his intention. It would be interesting to see whether or not he would find influence in the hearts and minds of these other nobles, who stood around drinking from tankards, feeding dogs from the table. He wouldn’t concern himself with what they thought, and so he didn’t. He’d had the chance to refute his challenger’s speech, but he knew that words alone would do nothing for this hardy batch of southerners who only prized action.

In fact, he was having a bit of a marvelous time. He always did enjoy a good verbal sparring, and there wasn’t anything in the world like the whiff of danger in a courtly setting. Distantly he thought he might have sunk low to enjoy such attention in the dog kennel that was Redcliffe castle, but it he was having fun, and with any luck, someone would put come to put a drink in his hand. Wonder if would be poisoned!

Cullen however had absolutely no sense of humor for these matters, and he looked one sneeze away from stoving in the man’s face with a bash from his shield. Oh, no no, not after such a superb performance. Dorian was half in love with the young leopard already, what a treacherous shit. How he turned on the heel of his rich leather boot! How he strode off, gloved hand poised on the basket of his sword-hilt, and oh, he even hissed something to Josephine as he passed her by, something deliciously Antivan. But the good Lady Montilyet was an artist in her own right. She matched his exit with an effortless riposte and Dorian knew it struck home, like the point of steel plunging through silk.

Dorian was quite excited by then, and even better, Arl Teagan himself had just come down the dais with a knotwork decanter in hand. He had a very Cullenish look about him then, which was to say he was tired of all this shit, but resigned to his duties as a host. Not unkindly, he proclaimed, “As you see we speak our minds here in Ferelden. You’ve done well, I think, and we thank you for your assistance… and for your sportsmanship. Now, come drink with me, and be welcome.”

Afterward, drink and meat were served and the nobles pressed Dorian with questions. Like a pack of strange dogs they came upon him, circling and sniffing, trying to figure him out. They were a loud, brusque people, but there was a kind of relief to those encounters. It was much like how he'd come to deal with Cullen; you knew his attitude immediately. 

At one point, someone drinking with a turkey leg asked him, in precisely what he would have expected someone drinking and eating a turkey leg to ask him, “Did you really time travel?” 

Dorian smiled and said, “It’s more complex than that, but—”

“If you really time traveled,” inquired another great Fereldan thinker, “couldn’t you go back and stop it before it began?”

“Well, essentially, that’s just what we—”

But then the top minds of drunken nobility were engaged now in new hypotheticals, all manner of side discussion and questions about time-travel, such as the mystifying possibilities of meeting a copy of oneself, preventing oneself from being born, or enabling it…. Ah yes, all manner of elucidating scientific discourse. One fellow turned to a second and asked, “If I could go back and time and fuck your mother, would you have to call me father?” and the other chap mulled his drink and said, “I do it all the time with yours, but I’ll spare you the courtesy.” Then they all laughed ringingly, the two of them loudest of all, before the one decked the other— and it wasn’t even the first fistfight of the evening!

“I think I love these people,” Dorian mentioned as he slithered up to Josephine. “I really do.” It was a rare moment to catch her alone; all evening she was a beautiful luminary ensconced in a group of lords and ladies-- if you could call these shieldmaidens such a dainty thing. Dorian hoped he would be treated to the sight of a Fereldan warrior woman setting upon the Venatori. Oh, how they would just hate that.

Lady Montilyet smiled winsomely at him and said, “You’re doing well, I think they like you.” 

Quite! He had shared drinks with roughly half of them, man and woman alike— sometimes hard to tell apart— and even the big dogs thudded their flanks against his legs in affection. Who knew it took only sarcasm and a few magic tricks to win these people over. At one point he called an empty glass smoothly to an astonished noble’s hand, and poured for him, all with magic, all without a single drop spilt, and you would have thought it a miracle on par with storming the Golden City.

Not everyone was having a good time. Of course there were the old guard, the holdouts, and the war-weary ones who had come only to discuss the effort. Like poor dear Cullen. The Fereldans behaved strangely to him at first. Like a pack of dogs coming up to sniff a strange animal, there was a suspicious cast to them, hackles not quite raised yet, but a tension to their bodies and their stance. Dorian couldn't quite discern the matter, as it could be any number of things. It might be that Cullen was someone's bastard, or perhaps the sworn-away son of some house that had fallen to political misfortune. In Josephine's crash history course, she told him that a few of the houses had supported Teyrn Loghain in the time of the Blight, and that there had been bloodshed. 

Of course none of that could be Cullen's fault, so perhaps they hated him simply for the things that actually _were_. They could join Cullen right in his pit of self-loathing if there were room. Yes, yes, the man who let the war begin. Who sided with a renegade mage over his own superior officer. There were even rumors that he had been Marian’s lover, that she had goaded him to kill on her behalf, the vile seductive witch of a woman. That’s what some people were saying. Dorian thought the rumors to be just the silliest— after all they said he was the Hero of Ferelden’s lover too— what a busy boy he’d been! 

Dorian saw him hard at work as usual, no whiskey at all. He stood among a throng of nobility, his body like an iron band. Someone had thrown a map over one of the long tables. A mabari had set its meaty head upon the edge, and it watched the faces and the goings-on with dumb doggy intent. Cullen was moving pieces over the lower edge of the Fereldan map, something to do with Lake Calenhad.

At least Cullen seemed to find a friendly audience in one of the ladies sometime afterward. She had stood out to Dorian before, in his interrogation in the grand hall, her face impassive among the others. Now she welcomed him with a kindliness that seemed entirely authentic; she had waved him over from his place with two lords, two charming brothers, and Dorian slid up just as Cullen rolled his eyes. He looked on rather good terms with her, and this sparked Dorian’s interest: not to mention her unconventional appearance. The good lady was entirely Ferelden, dressed in a deerskin surcoat lined with fox, a sword at her hip, looking outfitted to ride at a moment’s notice. Yet she was clearly of Rivain descent, her features striking, her bearing confident. Dorian had taken the Fereldans to be mostly a fair-skinned, pinkish people, given to cold weather, mists, and bogs, but now and again you would find a person of some other heritage. He thought he half-remembered a legend about the founding of the nation, the Theirin king and his assortment of foreign companions.

Cullen heaved an enormous sigh and said, like a churlish little boy being made to do something by his parents, “May I present the Lady Yasmin of House Barris, the wife of Bann Gathrik in Salt River.”

She presented her gloved hand and Dorian kissed it, deciding he would be extra courteous and munificent. “My dear Lady Yasmin. I had hoped to make your acquaintance.”

Cullen was dying before his eyes.

“The pleasure is mine, Lord Dorian. I hope you don’t mind if I steal you away for a moment.”

“I am all yours.”

“Please join Cullen and myself for a drink, won’t you?” 

Cullen was ready to extricate himself. “I need to speak with Teagan. I’ll leave you to it.”

“Don’t let Aedan get to you,” Yasmin said to him, quite frankly. “That’s what he wants. Nobody thinks ill of the Inquisition. No one who matters— what would we do without the Inquisitor? No one else could close the breach, and we’d still be fighting demons for days.” She laid her hand on her sword pommel and shook her head.

“I need to rely on Fergus Cousland,” Cullen told her. “How can I trust the commander of Ferelden’s army when his younger brother is sowing discord openly?”

Aha! So that’s who that was. 

“My dear,” said Dorian as he reached to clink glasses with Cullen and then with Yasmin. “Brothers always fight in noble families. Always vying for power and favor. Poisoning, assassinations… all of that same-old family business. Pay it no mind. It’s if the older brother should take an issue that you concern yourself, but not before. And I’m sure he’ll tell you plainly himself if that were the case.”

Yasmin made a ‘there you have it’ sort of expression, gesturing with her drink. “I couldn’t have said it better,” she remarked. 

Cullen came out of staring moodily into middle distance. He blinked at the glass in his hand, as though it had just appeared there by itself. “That is far too much you’ve poured,” he said.

To Dorian’s fascination, Yasmin plucked the glass off his hand, drank some off it unflinchingly, and handed it back “There, I fixed it,” she said, gasping after the burn. “Now lighten up.” She smiled at him, but there was tension in it. “I need you to, please.” 

With great resignation, Cullen took a drink. He sniffed hard when the taste hit him. “Damn.”

“I won’t make you stay,” Yasmin told him, taking his glass with one hand and squeezing his arm with the other. “But don’t go without saying goodbye.” 

Dorian wasn’t sure what to make of the look that passed between them. He didn’t know if Fereldan ladies would be so bold in the presence of their husbands, but then, they were Fereldan. And he couldn’t be sure it was like that anyway, or if it had been. There was something about Cullen that inspired some women to gaze at him with such warmth and sadness, the clear desire to bundle him up in some blankets. It was the eyes, perhaps, those hopelessly sad deep hooded eyes. 

When Cullen left, Yasmin remarked, “I hear your party will be adventuring toward Honnleath and the southwestern shores of Lake Calenhad.”

Dorian surfaced out of his wondering thoughts, and he smiled. “Yes, I’m to understand there was an apostate mage living free in a village, and he had a number of relics and strange experiments.”

“House Barris— my family— are lords of that land,” Yasmin said. “After the Blight, we sent knights and men-at-arms to perform a sweep of the village. I believe we recovered most of the obvious works, but Wilhelm was a subtle man. I am sure that there were some things that escaped our notice.”

“I will do my utmost to protect your family home,” replied Dorian. “You’ve nothing to fear. In any case I am positive that at least one of the Venatori will blow himself up in a magical trap.” 

Yasmin laughed soundlessly at that; Dorian only intended to flirt harmlessly with her, and besides, to judge from that sword-arm, she looked like she could stand on her own. It made him wonder what Bann Gathrik was like, and if he was as much a match for her. “You’re delightfully unexpected, Lord Dorian— but welcome,” she said after a moment's reflection. “I can see that Cullen thinks highly of you.”

“Oh, now you’re just flattering me,” he said. “You can continue if you like!”

“I heard all sorts of things… “

“Oh, yes. Anything good?”

“I’d heard it rumored,” she said, voice dropping, “that you were a necromancer.”

Dorian clasped a hand to his chest. “Well I won’t stand for it," he said with a smile. "I studied for years prove myself a real necromancer. I won’t tolerate being merely rumored as one.”

.............

The Ferelden waters of life. Whiskey. Who knew that such a cold, boggy, doggy place could produce such a miracle? The thought made him chuckle-- boggy doggy! Oh yes. A miracle drink. He felt so warm and so good, so proud of himself, so sleek and witty and perfect. He'd done wonderfully at Redcliffe castle. Played to a hostile audience, and won them over. Most of them. Many of them. Fuck the rest, really.

Josephine had elected to remain at the castle by the evening, but Cullen was ready to go the moment his business was concluded. Dorian thought to cut the night short, to leave them wanting more, though it had been difficult to free himself from the effervescent company of Lady Yasmin and those two brothers, who were such nice people. So Dorian and his awful horse went back, and old Cullen frowned sanctimoniously the entire way to the crossroads camp. Dorian hadn’t been all that drunk, a bit buzzed, of course, and if he flopped in the stables hayloft it was merely because he didn’t want to go share that communal tent anyway. A bunch of rib-kicking blanket-takers, and a chronic farter.

“Are you going to be all right out here by yourself?” Cullen asked, looking up at him, gauntlets on his hips in sort of a stern motherly configuration.

“I’ve got plenty of company,” Dorian told him, and a waving, be-ringed hand was indicating all the horses. “You could stay, too. Lady Yasmin let me keep the bottle.”

“Andraste be good. Don’t drink any more of that, Dorian! You don’t drink whiskey like that.” 

“Dearest sir. I do think you underestimate the strength of my liver. Now come on up. What else do you have to do tonight?”

Cullen sighed another one of those gusty sighs. But to Dorian’s delight, there was a heave on the ladder, and Cullen clambered his way up into the hayloft. He lay heavily against a bank of straw, and said nothing for a time, though he did take a burning swig from the bottle handed to him. They sat together in the deepening twilight.

"I was just thinking of how quaint this country is."

Cullen heaved a sigh. 

"I mean that. Of course I had been thinking of the whiskey, earlier, but let me expand upon this topic for a moment. Indulge me. I think the quality I have truly come to appreciate about Fereldans is this: that you say whatever comes to your mind, and there's no guile whatsoever. You're just so frank, so, so blunt."

"Of course, Dorian, we're only a bunch of childish barbarians, not like you wise and clever Tevinters."

"See, right to the point. Well done." Dorian patted him. "I think that Cousland boy is going to be trouble."

Cullen shut his eyes. "You did well. I hate that it happened, but you came out looking better for it.”

"I meant, trouble for someone. The crown, maybe. The status quo. A bit of a lean and hungry look about that one. I'll be very surprised if he's not involved with the malcontents that Josephine mentioned."

"They'd be fools to challenge Alistair now," Cullen said darkly.

"What, a coup in the midst of disaster? That never happens, does it, certainly not in Ferelden." Dorian smirked at him. "I'll have you know, we in Tevinter were all talking when the queen's father killed the old king-- along with all the nation's Grey Wardens, no less, and in a Blight." 

Cullen was rolling his eyes somewhere around the time of the smirk. "For one-- I don't believe that Loghain killed the king and the Grey Wardens.... moreso... let them die. It was a complex--"

Dorian grinned. "Aha! A Loghain supporter."

"No, Maker no. Dorian, don't for a moment think I will let you bait me into a political discussion, especially when you are drunk."

“I’m just a bit… buzzed, that’s all.” Dorian smiled. “It’s going to be fun, I think, our adventure, just the four of us. Though I have to admit, it’s odd that Varric and Blackwall made no appearance at the castle. Was that by design?”

“Blackwall declined,” Cullen replied. “He told me that he didn’t want to draw away the arl’s attention, and it was more important to mind the soldiers. The Grey Wardens prefer to stay out of notice.” 

That made sense. “And I suppose Varric wanted to hide away so they wouldn’t ask him about Hawke.” 

With the burden of a thousand years, Cullen, like some ancient tree struggling to speak, said, “She may be in this very camp even now.”

Dorian grinned bonelessly from his pile of hay. “I’ll protect you from her.”

Cullen smirked, but there was a weary humor in it. The drink might have taken a bit of the edge off. He looked tired, weighed down in all his armor, half-swallowed in the straw. They both seemed to recognize at once that there was no way Cullen was going to get out of that straw and climb down again, not tonight. Slowly he began to unstrap his armor, starting with the gorget and mantle.

Dorian was thinking of Cullen’s women now, and said, “The Lady Yasmin told me something interesting about you.”

“What is that.”

“That you were her serving boy. Are you someone’s bastard, Cullen, hidden away in another nobleman’s family?”

Cullen smiled at that. “No,” he said. “We were freeholders. Some of the time we would help at the castle, but we lived on our small farm at the edge of the village.”

Although this was a surprise to him, Dorian couldn’t help but make a gasp of mock astonishment. “A commoner!” 

“Indeed,” Cullen said, and his eyes glittered with a slow sardonic kind of fun. “Are you sullied by my very presence?”

Oh if only he might be sullied by Cullen’s presence. He’d just love it really. Dorian chuckled. A bit of straw was sticking to the side of his mouth now. “I’m only surprised by how literate you are,” he said.

“You really are a snob, Dorian.”

“You know how I meant that.”

“My parents could both read and write. Even my father, a goatherd.”

“A goatherd. Good Maker. Goats, for real?” 

“No, we tended a collection of fake ones. We were that poor.”

Dorian started to laugh. “I meant… you know what I meant. I am trying to picture you herding goats.”

Cullen had the driest sense of humor if you got him started. He had released himself from the toughest parts of his armor, setting aside the stiff shell of their major components. Underneath it he wore that padded gambeson and he had sweated through it at the arm pits and throat. It had grown sweltering in the big hall with the blazing fires, and no doubt the stress of the evening had gotten to him. Yet he smelled so good. Dorian watched him make himself comfortable. At one point he made a gasp or sigh whose little sound reverberated down Dorian’s spine with delicious force.

“I really wanted to be a templar,” Cullen said softly, after a time. “Many of the other boys had no choice in the matter. They resented it.”

Dorian smiled up from the straw, where he lay with his head on his arm. “You were a true believer, then.”

“Yes.”

“No wonder it all hurts you so,” Dorian said quietly, but his sympathy could not reach Cullen.

“It’s useless to feel sorry for me, you know,” he said without sorrow in his voice, only a sort of flatness, an exhaustion. “I did this all to myself.”

Dorian did not know what he could say that would make anything better. Instead, and perhaps against his better judgment, he reached over wordlessly to offer human comfort. He didn’t know what good it would do to touch Cullen’s sleeve with his sticky hand, a piece of straw glued to it, but he lay there drunk and sentimental. Cullen slitted his eyes to look at him, perhaps taking him for a fool, but Dorian smiled as disarmingly as he could. 

The next morning was all too bright, a lancing ray through Dorian’s eyes, but he discovered Cullen hugging him in his sleep. For a moment he could almost blot out the pain in his head and jaw, treated to a warm bulk that somehow both surrounded and burrowed in toward him. Cullen smelled sweatily, wonderfully good, and his arms and body felt heavy and supportive. Dorian was hard, fully, foolishly hard, with the distinct knowledge that the last time he’d had a mind and some time to take care of himself had been in a bath some days ago, when this errant templar interrupted him. Yet in this hungover, awkward state, he couldn’t know his day was about to worsen somewhat remarkably. 

No one was quite sure when it happened, but it seemed that Varric and Blackwall deserted the party sometime in the night. No one had seen them leave the camp. They had said nothing to anyone, but one of the guards found a note, which began, in Varric’s broad hand: _Yeah, so, we ran off and you guys are on your own, but I can explain…_


	3. Chapter 3

"Tell me you don't know anything about this," growled Cullen the instant that Lady Montilyet appeared in the briefing tent.

"I don't know anything about this," she said lightly, neutrally, completely ignoring the rage that radiated from her fellow adviser. "What does it say?"

Dorian winced, partially from embarrassment for Cullen's behavior, but mostly from his aching head. "Varric and Blackwall took off without us," he said. "He's left a note." Which Cullen hadn't let him read. Pity; the man turned about five shades of purple throughout. Fascinating really. “I’m to understand he thought it unnecessary to expose Cullen to deposits of raw red lyrium. Of course, he deemed it equally unnecessary to discuss the matter with us before riding off like a thief in the night.”

"Varric doesn't think I can handle it," Cullen said wrathfully, though Josephine remained unflappable, as if completely impervious to his emotions. Dorian never cared for short tempers, due to a boyhood of his mother's rages-- but he could understand, and anyway, perhaps it was best not to react. Cullen never stayed angry for long. 

Josephine plucked the letter from his hand. "I can understand why this would frustrate you. However, do you not agree that you are better matched to your mission this way?"

"I'll leave you to it," Dorian excused himself. He wanted some water, and, in the total lack of coffee in this uncivilized land, he would go for some tea. His head pounded mercilessly and anyway, it was best to let Cullen cool off. He'd refused to discuss the letter, so... so be it. 

Dorian heard them talking lowly but the words fell outside his comprehension. With foreign languages, especially this one, he knew he did quite well-- save for strong regional accents, whispering, and the speech of small children. But he could guess what Cullen was on about. Poor fellow; he must feel so betrayed. Varric they all knew was a slippery rogue, but Blackwall... of course to Cullen, and to most Fereldans, they could do no wrong. Cullen thought highly of the man, and you could often see them sparring in the castle yard.

Blackwall of course was a bastard, like most Grey Wardens. Dorian knew better; he'd known wardens, he'd been to the Anderfels. Dorian couldn't put his finger on it exactly, but he was sure there was something checkered in Blackwall's past. Normal people didn't just go and be wardens. Yet Dorian knew it was important for Cullen to have friends at Skyhold, especially people that didn't work for him. Pity he had to learn his lesson like this.

Now he heard Josephine say something like, “I suppose Varric thinks he is doing the right thing—” 

And Cullen's intense: "I KNOW what he’s doing!” 

Dorian walked away from the noise in the tent. He knew there was no catching up to them, and anyway, there was something of a point to be made in the letter, if it said what he thought it did. Dorian knew what was really going on, of course. Varric was clearing the way for an eventual rendezvous with Hawke. It was all very plain. He could see through Varric’s little tricks. If Dorian held any reservations, it would be these: that Varric didn’t tell them before… and that he found it slightly awkward to spend so much time alone with Cullen, not knowing exactly where they stood. Exciting, yet awkward— much like the man himself.

He didn't get too far; Cullen called him back into the tent, and he trudged over, taking a pull from his waterskin. "So, are we going? Not going? Shall we have Master Tethras captured and clapped in the stocks?" He rubbed the waterskin against the side of his head. "Come to think of it, if you wanted the good Champion to come to Skyhold sooner rather than later... "

Cullen was pressing on his eyes. Dorian half expected them to pop out of his mouth. "Varric and Blackwall are well-matched to their mission," he said, like a child who begrudgingly repeated a phrase for his governess, "and we to ours." (Josephine looked on approvingly.) "Instead of playing games, we could have discussed this back at Skyhold and come to a different resolution: that of taking a full team each. Instead we are left at half-strength and--" 

Oh no, he was starting up again, but Lady Montilyet cleared her throat quite firmly.

"The original plan called for collaboration with Leliana's people," Josephine cut in, "So that part of the plan will not change. You will have full support of any Inquisition agents you encounter.”

Cullen steepled his hands at his mouth. The lip scar showed white when his face colored. Then he sighed and his hands fell away, one to rub at the back of his neck. "Josephine, I apologize for speaking to you in such a manner," he said. His shame looked genuine. Good.

"Think nothing of it," replied the ambassador. 

“No, honestly,” he went on, pale and flushed at once, “I can’t… I can’t just be like that. I’m sorry.” 

“You ought to be,” Dorian said, lightly, “I’d never take a tone with Josephine over anything.” He smiled meltingly at her, and then added, “You ought to make him do push-ups.” 

Josephine smiled quite tidily, and continued, because she thought of everything, "Now, it would be wise to change into the armor of an ordinary soldier. I will sign documents for you to requisition anything you require at any camp, and, of course, I will personally return your armor to Skyhold when I depart."

"I... I will leave it to you to decide, Dorian," Cullen said, then, defeated. "If you wish to continue as we are, or to return to Skyhold. I know the Inquisitor will--"

"Do we have time to eat breakfast first?" Dorian asked.

"Is... that a yes or no?"

"Yes, you silly goose. I'll go gallivanting about the countryside with you."

"It will be much more dangerous than we originally planned."

"I think that ordinarily it would be extremely dangerous, but we are not ordinary people, are we," Dorian countered. "You are the foremost enemy of demons, blood mages, and maleficarum of all kinds. I am-- well. I _hardly_ need an introduction." He smirked coquettishly. "And need I remind you that I have gone alone with the Inquisitor himself, in a hellish demon world, and come out not only alive but deeply smug about it. So I'm not concerned."

Cullen said, "Are you quite sure."

"Cullen, if you were truly serious about safety concerns, you wouldn't be sleeping in that deathtrap of a loft."

Josephine smiled. "That is a fine point. He has you there."

Cullen heaved a massive sigh. "Then we will stick to the plan. The mission must be completed."

"Good. Now, I'm starving."

.............

Cullen was still in his Mood. 

A pity. Just that morning he was quite peaceful. Dorian would have enjoyed it more without an aching head and burning belly, but even so. It hadn't been the first time that he had awakened in the arms of another man, far from it. Yet he couldn't recall another instance of being held so tenderly, and he had experienced a tangle of emotions while laying in the straw of the hayloft, Cullen breathing gently and warmly against his neck. It embarrassed him, really. At least Cullen had no idea he grabbed people in his sleep, and Dorian was able to crawl away hungover with no one the wiser. 

A silence lapsed between them as they rode out. Perhaps for the best; Dorian's head twanged like mad for most of the morning. They began with a sloping tract of evergreen forest known as Hafter's Wood, out by the new quarry. Leliana's people had discovered the remains of a Venatori encampment there.

The Venatori had abandoned the place in a hurry. Although they took most things of use, Neria the elven keeper had recovered some papers from a fire. Most were reduced to ash, but some blackened pages were still legible. The Venatori were being recalled to another site, "theta" but the Inquisition had no notion which one that meant. Dorian suggested they continue searching while there was still light; they might not have gotten far, unused to such arduous travel in this terrain.

It wasn't long for him to be proved correct.

They were riding down a series of switchbacks cut through the hillside. The path was wide enough for a mount, but never a cart. Cullen's mare seemed nervy, her ears twitching, nostrils blowing, but Dorian's dullard of a bay could hardly be concerned. Once Dorian nudged him forward, the mare took her cue from him, and they made a descent without much incident. 

Colored light showed in the distance. It caught Cullen's eye first, and he pointed it out from their dizzying vantage. The use of magic.

They urged their horses onward through the last decline, and the path dropped off into a muddy gulch that required more finesse to navigate. Yet the magic was still in use. Cullen was first to dismount, as they rehearsed, and they let their horses go when there was still cover and distance for them to be safe.

Dorian prepared himself for battle. 

As they silently crept up to the scene, Dorian saw, to his immense satisfaction, a flailing Venator up in the crotch of an oak. His mantle was caught on a scraggly branch, and he was shrieking for his apprentice to do something.

At the base of the tree, clawing its way up, a huge, stinking, snuffling bear was slobbering with rage. They had already scorched it with a fire spell, but it was wet all over, likely slapping for fish when they first encountered it.

The second Venator was a younger man, gawkish-looking, who had likely joined the movement in order to get women. He managed to hit the bear with lightning this time. Though Dorian believed that surely would take of the wet animal well enough, it only seemed to enrage the bear even further. 

Dorian bit his lip and turned to Cullen, who, sad to say, wasn't showing any sign of finding this funny. Dorian leaned in very close, his lips to Cullen's ear, and he whispered, "I think we ought to let nature take its course." 

Cullen rolled his eyes. 

They waited in the brush for some sort of conclusion to this folly. The master Venator was trying to situate himself less awkwardly in the tree, but his long staff thumped and caught against the vee of two branches. He attempted to rotate it this way and that to bring it through, but he ended up loosing his foothold. He caught himself slipping, but, to Dorian's utter delight, the fool dropped his staff.

Meanwhile the young man was treated to a boisterous mauling. 

The smell of stinking, burnt bear-hair was now everywhere.

Sadly, all things must come to their end, and the master Venator was able to electrocute the beast at long last. Goodness, it took a concentrated effort; Dorian was exhausted just watching. The master Venator slipped out of the tree, heaved for breath, and went in hobbling to make sure the bear was dead.

It was at this point that Cullen walked out of the woods and killed him, just like that. Dorian was ready to cast Barrier, but he'd hardly needed it. The Venator looked up-- some spiteful bastard out of Minrathous with a go-nowhere career-- and Cullen took his head off.

Dorian strolled out and picked a bramble off his traveling cloak. "I was going to make a bear-related pun," he said to Cullen, "but I know your feelings on the matter."

Wiping blood off his sword on the dead mage's cloak, Cullen said, "I admire your restraint." 

No one else arrived on the scene. Dorian wondered if the flash of magic had been witnessed by other Venatori. Cullen still expected danger, that was clear from his ready stance. He made Dorian go over the bodies while he kept watch. 

It appeared that the younger mage had traded out his personal staff for a southern variant. The older was carrying a spare, similarly looted from the Fereldan mages, but he had opted to retain his Tevinter-made weapon. Dorian could understand the sentiment; however, things might have gone differently if he had commanded that more dangerous southern staff. When Dorian picked it up, he felt the hum of its power, a delicious purr that spread from his palm up his arm to the nape of his neck. 

There were odds-and-ends to be found among the Venatori duo. A year ago, Dorian could hardly believe that he would be found looting bodies somewhere in a barbarian backwater, but, here he was, taking coins from coin purses, rifling through coat-pockets, and pulling rings off of fingers. Apart from the three staves, there were two books of interest to Dorian. He'd get to them later.

Cullen was hauling the younger mage over to a spit of gravel on the side of a muddy creekbed. He shouldered the body off and went back for the other. "Are we finished here," he said to Dorian, who understood what Cullen intended to do.

Dorian raised a fire over both the bodies. Personally, he didn't care a whit for these people. This was the choice they had made. Yet he supposed Cullen still held on to notions of religious propriety. He said nothing, but when it was done, he departed the site in something of a meditative silence. He helped Dorian collect their discoveries, taking the staves from him. He knew how to hold them correctly.

It was growing dark when they walked their horses up to the quarry camp. It was the closest friendly site they would reach before nightfalll. The sentries made a scramble when they saw two men carrying staves, one of whom who was visibly a foreigner. It warmed him when Cullen stepped in front of him, his forearm held back protectively across his chest. "He's on a quest for Leliana," Cullen told them. "We both are. He's Dorian Pavus, the Inquisitor's friend and kinsman." 

There was some back-and-forth. Cullen produced Josephine's letter, smartly signed with her personal seal. He was going by a false name, of course, and the sentries let him up into the camp. These men and women were mostly laborers, many far-removed from the goings-on of the Inquisitor's companions. If anyone recognized Cullen in the dark, who had been kitted out as any other soldier, no one said anything yet. 

The foreman was annoyed to receive strangers so late to the camp, and with no notice, and especially with mealtime coming up. He gripped Josephine's letter in dirty hands, and he frowned at the entitlements that she had drawn up for them. With no choice but to begrudgingly acquiesce, he gave them a place in line for a ladle of stew, and a tent of their own use-- that was mostly crates of tools and supplies. He'd warned them about "those things" and notched his chin at the staves. 

"Do what ye will, but ye best not be doin' no magic in there," he'd groused at them. Dorian imagined him and Cullen giggling in the tent like naughty boys, with little flashes of light and fire and what not. He should have raised that bear from the dead and brought it back with them to camp. Oh, well, look at this paper, Josephine said I could....

Cullen ignored the man's bad attitude completely, and in a calm but weary voice, he thanked the foreman for granting them shelter. Dorian was made to feel a bit snobbish by this, realizing then, as he looked the foreman over, that these men were exhausted from physical labor, coated in stone dust, working to shore up the Inquisition's defenses and to repair a broken world. Fine, fine. Yes.

After they'd settled in, the horses cared for, the staves stacked on the supply crates, Cullen turned to him with a weary expression.

“I don’t like surprises,” he admitted, beginning to unlace his armor at the sides. “I want you to know that I respect your strength and that I know you can hold your own.”

Dorian studied him from where he sat on his bedroll. He'd left his mud caked boots nearby, and regretted it; his feet were cold, even in their woolen socks. At least their supply tent had been pitched on rocky ground, so the wet didn't rise up beneath them.

When Cullen didn't immediately continue, Dorian said, "Oh, I thought you were going to say more about my impressive qualities." He smiled in such a way that Cullen couldn't help but smile. Aha, got you. "As it happens, I think the same of you, so-- what then is the issue?"

Cullen heaved a sigh, and Dorian didn't like it. 

“I apologize. I didn’t... " Cullen picked at his armor, still toying with the cuirass before taking it off. "I didn’t want to get into this, but I am sometimes.. My health is poorer than it would seem. With only the two of us I fear to burden you.” 

“Don’t I get to decide if I am burdened or not?” Dorian cultivated a mild look. He knew it would be important to handle this matter just so. “Perhaps you will tell me what is the matter with you, so that I know how to respond.”

Cullen glanced away. He looked so shamefaced, and didn’t say anything outright.

“Maxwell has told me about some of the maladies the templars experience. Chronic pain. Seizures. Illness. Sudden death. This is what you mean?”

Cullen’s face was white when he said, quite sadly, “If that does happen, there’s a letter on my bookshelf that outlines my wishes and what should be done. I’ve taken care of everything.”

Those sad deep eyes cut Dorian to the core. He thought of this regret-ridden man tallying up the last details of his life, not wanting to be trouble for anyone any longer, knowing he was hated by so many, wanting to completely disappear with all loose problems resolved. It was a bleak place that Dorian recognized, for he had journeyed there once, too, only a few years past. 

Dorian wasn’t going to let Cullen linger on these thoughts, not like this. He reached over and gave him a playful shake. “You’ll be happy to know that you aren’t going to die while we’re out here,” he said. “These Venatori are just overwhelmingly pathetic, I assure you.” Dorian made a deeply sarcastic gesture with one eyebrow. "And if you won't take my word for it, then you saw for yourself the stunning might of the New Imperium."

"That was rather stupid, wasn't it," Cullen whispered, after a moment. "I kept thinking... there must be more.. 

"Oh, there will be more," said Dorian fulsomely, "and it will be even more stupid than that." He preened the tip of his left mustache point. "It has been foretold."

Cullen laughed weakly, just a sharp bark, just that, but it sounded good; it must feel good. Dorian thought the man would drown in his anxiety. Now that they had a human moment again, that they connected, he asked, "Now, how are you holding up?" 

"I'll manage," said Cullen. He was laying the parts of his leather armor aside. Dorian liked the padded gambeson beneath. It had felt nice against his back, too, that morning. Dorian made a note to edge his bedroll a little further away; he wasn't sure he could endure a repeat performance. 

“You’ll be fine,” he said. “Out here, getting fresh air. Eating home-cooked meals. You promised we were going to stop at taverns and country inns along the way, yes?”

Cullen was looking absently over his swordbelt. 

“I don’t think you’re afraid to die,” Dorian ventured. “More to disappoint. To dishonor. You have this mistaken notion that it were somehow possible for the commander of the Inquisition to die out here and that it would be a blow to everyone's morale."

When Cullen lifted his eyes, Dorian knew he’d hit his mark.

"Not everyone," he said with a self-deprecating smile.

Dorian smiled back. "My dear. You need to learn how to let others hate you and don't care that they do."

Cullen set his weapons aside, but not far from reach, and he thumped down on his bedroll. "I don't know why I'm this way," he said so softly that Dorian barely heard him.

Dorian wanted to take his head in his hands, and just stroke back that yellow hair, which was, amusingly, much more curly than his grooming routine had allowed for. Now in the wild it was resuming its natural state, and it suited him.

“Anyway," Dorian continued, "I’m looking forward to spending time with you. You’re always so busy at Skyhold, and it is a nuisance when people can’t pay attention to me like I deserve.” 

Cullen had looked shy at the start of his statement, and once Dorian lured him in, the pettish whine in his tone had made Cullen crack a grin. “You’re a brat, Dorian.” Then, licking his lip, his expression somewhat wavering, he added, “I— I’m looking forward to spending time with you as well.”

“Good, so, I fully expect you to talk more and tell me interesting things, and to at least look engaged when I am speaking.”

Cullen smiled. Close-lipped, of course. He really did look so weary, and Dorian wished he would eat something at the very least. Or take a draught of elfroot; they could always get more. 

"I have a last thing to ask you, and then I'll quit," Dorian said. 

"All right."

"I have lyrium in my pack, and our lodging is a close space. Is that going to trouble you? I can remove it."

Cullen looked as though that wasn't the question he anticipated, and the look of puzzlement lingered for longer than Dorian would have thought. Cullen turned his head as if attempting to detect a whisper of a sound, a wisp of a scent. 

"No, you don't," he said. 

"No, I don't.. what?" 

"You don't have lyrium."

Dorian frowned. He leaned over to pull his pack closer. “You can smell it from here?” 

“It’s not so much a smell as, a taste, or… a sound, sometimes.” Cullen was beginning to look agitated.

Dorian rifled through his belongings. His hand touched paper and a pipe. “Varric again. Of course." 

Cullen's eyes flashed. "What's it say now?

"‘Hey Good Lookin— sorry about this, read the main note first. I have the UTMOST confidence that you won’t need your lyrium. I’ll give it back to you at Skyhold. In the meantime… you kids have fun. Love, Varric.'" 

A new fury breathed back into life from the embers, and Cullen ran both hands back through his hair. "Varric. I swear to---"

"Wait." 

Dorian thought he should be put out, but— if it was that bad, he didn’t want to torture Cullen for the entire duration. Or worse, if Cullen gave into temptation and drank down his lyrium. What would happen if Cullen started taking it again? 

Dorian thought he should be put out, but— he found what Varric had traded him. A gesture of goodwill no doubt. 

Cullen was watching in mute rage until Dorian held some of it up with a quirky smile. It was fascinating how Cullen's face could somehow cycle through four different expressions.

Dorian brought the dried elfroot in for a sniff. "Hmm. Earthy, expansive… with notes of vanilla."

"I can't believe he would," Cullen started.

"Of course he would. Now let me see here. I do think this is the strain we call _Domina_ up north." 

“Jade Royal," Cullen said. "If it's vanilla, it's Jade Royal."

Dorian laughed. "Well, there’s a pipe here too-- what do you say?" 

Cullen rubbed his face with both hands, sat back, and looked utterly blank. Then his eyes slid to their corners, and they looked at one another. "Oh, fuck it," he whispered so passionately that Dorian crowed with delight.

Sometime later they sat in a comfortable, chuckling quiet, eating tough bread and cheese, talking about everything and nothing, books, magic. Goats and things goats do. Cullen told him they could climb trees. He spoke slowly yet freely once the elfroot worked its magic, and the tension went out of his entire body; these parts of the plant were useless for potions and salves, but they could be prepared in such a way for a relaxing (and entertaining) effect. Dorian was only mildly and momentarily surprised that Cullen had familiarity with it, but then again, hadn't the crux of his problem been obsession with a certain much more terrible substance, one which was as incredibly dangerous as it was addictive? 

It was warm now in the tent, the pipe passed between them companionably, and Dorian’s eyes bleared a bit from the smoke. They were letting it out the canvas flaps by and by, although they'd the ill luck that the foreman passed by at one point, and he scolded them. Cullen had held a fist against his mouth, trying not to laugh, and tearing up over the effort.

Once the man stomped off, Dorian shot Cullen a sharp look and said, in a deep tone of authority, "You heard the man, you’d best not be fucking around. The Inquisition isn't here to play games. You're here to Inquisit."

Cullen melted into the most beautiful, most ridiculous laughter he'd heard in a long time, and Dorian loved it. Dorian loved getting high with him. Dorian loved him, and his stupid laugh. Cullen laughed so hard that one of the laborers from another tent, even at a distance, called out to hush him, "quit yer gigglin', ye daft bastard." 

Then Dorian heard someone cry out, "it's you's the daft bastard! That's the feckin' commander!!" only to be nay-sayed, hushed, and called names of his own.

Cullen had no more sound to let out by then, and he just shook with laughter. Dorian was about to hand the pipe back to him when he saw the dull gleam of red from one nostril. Oh no, not again. Either the smoke irritated his nasal passages, or he'd laughed hard enough to shake something loose, or, well, perhaps there was no reason at all, because Cullen was always getting nosebleeds. 

Cullen saw his expression change, and then he lifted the back of his hand to his nose. Dorian reached out to his face, not quite sure what he meant to do, perhaps to blot the blood away. He didn't have anything for it, though, and ended up smearing red over Cullen's lips.

Cullen made a laugh of a sound, as if to mock his effort, though he didn't seem to mind. 

Dorian could only laugh at himself. "I, I'm not sure what that was meant to accomplish," he said with a grin. They sat there, leaned in, looking at each other, and Dorian wanted to apologize, and to kiss him. He could do it, too, he knew he could. Cullen was breathing slowly but deliberately, his bloody lips parted just so, his lowered eyes on Dorian's mouth. Yet-- yet, fuck, he'd been mistaken before, he'd been utterly mistaken, and he couldn't. He wanted to think he could trust Cullen, that he'd laugh it off, that he wouldn't be unkind, but if Dorian were wrong... 

He'd once asked Cole, desperately, if Cullen liked men or women. ‘Yes,’ was Cole’s reply; he was carrying an armful of chickens at the time, for some reason. Dorian had said, ‘no no, what does Cullen want,’ and the spirit boy had answered, ‘Maker’s Mercy,’ and off he went with his chickens.

Cullen was touching his face now. Strong fingertips combed back through his hair, a slow sure stroke from temple to crown. Dorian shivered. Cullen stared him in the eye, and then a wicked smile curved his mouth. Dorian had never seen such a look on that man, and he didn't think he could get any harder. This close, and with Cullen grinning like that, Dorian could see that the man had a metal tooth under the lip scar.

"I just thought of the perfect revenge against Varric," Cullen whispered, and, oh, that really wasn't what he thought Cullen was about to say or do. "I'm not going to forget just because he gave us this." 

Dorian knew the moment to strike had now passed, and in its wake, he felt loss... as well as relief, blessed relief. If he was about to make a mistake, even the slightest miscalculation, he was unprepared now for that aftermath. Instead, he brought the pipe up again and said, "Tell me your revenge." 

It turned out even better than he expected. If Master Tethras thought the days of the villainous knight-captain were behind them, guess again. It was so deliciously evil, so wondrously perfect, so fitting, so _deserving_ , that Dorian couldn't think of it without chuckling to himself, one of those magister laughs that Sera imagined. 

The night passed with drowsy laughter, some stories, and only a bit more being yelled-at.

When morning came, however, the complaints took on a definite uptick. Men shouting, dogs barking. Iron clanging. Chickens squawking. The sound of gravel blown through a musical instrument. The sound of canvas ripping. The sound of hoofbeats that weren't quite hooves, the sound of a screaming woman that wasn't a woman. 

And then before Dorian or Cullen could properly react, the dracolisk burst into the tent, slid, and wedged its great big blue warty body between the two of them. Then it licked Dorian's entire face with a splash of its forked tongue. 

The foreman's voice carried above the chaos: "Orright, that's enough, I don't care yer Leliana's people! The two've you is out of my quarry!"


	4. Chapter 4

It was true love.

The dracolisk had taken to him at once, and its massive warty bulk danced about him in pure joy. A kindred spirit. A fellow-traveler. A lost soul found. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever beheld, a horrible, warty, knobby, spiny, bony creature, blue and yellow, hard and sharp just about everywhere, its head like a bare skull, its teeth massive and gnashing, its eyes weird and knowing. It screamed like a woman and honked like a goose. It smelled like leather left out in the sun. It was perfect.

Cullen reacted warmly to the mutual Tevinter joys— once he was sure the beast wasn’t about to take a jagged bite out of Dorian, he stood by to help, smiling openly in appraisal of the oddball beauty. 

The little black mare was alarmed at its presence. Whenever it came close she scrambled away, ears flashing back and forth, her nostrils blowing. Cullen was wise not to mount her; though she was sweet on him (as many women were) the little mare with the heart-shaped spot was likely to throw him into grievous injury. The bay gelding couldn't care a whit, unconcerned, unimpressed.

The beast was still wearing its saddle when it came to them, the remnants of it at least; the leather was shredded and bitten, but it couldn't quite free itself. Dorian held its long face and spoke softly to it while Cullen took his knife and sawed through the girth straps. Once or twice it would dart a worried look, a claw-toed foot half-raised, but Dorian stroked it and lavished such loving attention upon it that its reptilian pupils went large and it nuzzled his face. It was like a kiss from a snakeskin boot.

When the saddle was free, Cullen let it fall and jumped back, as if ready for a kick. But the beast only shook itself out gratefully, and its bumpy blue hide shivered all over. Raw patches showed where the leather had chafed it.

Freed from itching, hurting leather, the dracolisk bumped its snout against him, a friendly bump with a force that knocked him into a stumble. Cullen hastened up to him with a hand held out to catch him. How nice, but he could handle himself. 

"You can't ride him yet," said Cullen, releasing his shoulders after a moment— too bad. "I don't know much about them, but he's hurt, and he looks so hungry."

"I know, poor thing." Dorian patted the ridgy skull of the beast. "He can come with us at least. We'll have to find him some food-- since, you know, we were turned out so rudely, without any breakfast."

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck, saying, "I'm sorry about that."

"Pshh, don't be. I had fun, didn't you?" 

Cullen smiled yes. They were still standing quite close.

"Promise me you won't fall all over yourself about some sort of failure or weakness, et cetera... "

"No. I'm only sorry we ran out of elfroot.”

Dorian laughed. "Good. That's more like it."

Their gaze met, and Dorian saw a warm glimmer in Cullen's eyes. In the morning light they looked almost golden. Sick as he was, Cullen was a beautiful man, really. If he'd take care himself better, he could truly be stunning. Dorian was in fact beginning to picture him in Tevinter garb when Cullen spoke again.

"So-- do you know anything about the care and feeding of dracolisks?"

Dorian had been imagining him in the leather straps of a gladiator, and now he had to catch up. "Oh, ah, yes. Our family had them when I was growing up."

"Yes, but... I'm assuming you didn't actually groom them, trim their claws, oil them, feed them, muck their stalls, and so on?"

"Are you saying I'm a spoiled brat?"

Cullen smiled gently and said, "Dorian, I know you're a spoiled brat." He was patting the black mare to reassure her, but Dorian could very easily imagine him patting Dorian's head while he said that. "I'm only saying that these animals are very... specialized... and I don't know if any of us here in the south know how to care for them properly."

"Very well," Dorian admitted, "I wasn't personally responsible for our dracolisks, being that I was ten years old, but I certainly helped when I could. I loved them." He was certain that the dracolisk was only responding to his tone, but it snuffled up close to him again and he felt his heart thump. "They are carnivores, so we'll have to feed him meat, and--"

"Is he going to be a danger to the other horses, or to--?"

"Oh, no, not intentionally." Dorian stroked the dracolisk's neck. "This isn't a war dracolisk-- those are made vicious, fed live victims, beaten, and so on. I think it's a cruel and foul practice anyway. This one-- this one is much too sweet. His identifying mark has been burnt off, so there's no telling who he belonged to, but I'd bet he was kept for a personal mount or for showing. He'll be well-socialized with people and other animals. In fact, he might not even connect living creatures with the idea of meat, you know? Food comes from the stablemaster."

"Spoiled and fancy. A perfect match for you, then." Cullen seemed proud of that one. Then, musingly, he said, "The Venatori really are a pack of fools. Style over substance all the way down. I'm sure some arrogant young idiot thought he'd look like the real magister, bearing down on the innocents on his mighty dracolisk, and he's stolen the wrong one."

"Myself I prefer style and substance," Dorian replied, "but you have the right of it. These idiots, play-acting at a new world order. All of us forced to participate." 

Cullen chuckled. "What are you going to name him? It is a him, isn't it?" 

"There's really not much to go on, is there," Dorian quipped. "There's only one way to tell if you have a stallion or mare, and that's if it gives birth. In the meantime I'll call him... Kallisto."

"The Most Beautiful One."

"Yes. Just look at him." Dorian turned the beast's cheek with his fingertips, and Kallisto grinned toothily back at Cullen. Then a sneaking realization came over Dorian then. "You must have studied Tevene, didn't you? Of course you did. All the Chantry canon is in Tevene. Even in the south it must be."

"Haven't you heard? The Orlesians know everything there is to know, especially about God." 

Dorian smelled weakness. "You're defensive about this," he said. "Why would you hide this from me, that you understand Tevene?" Cullen looked guilty at once, and Dorian could no longer contain his grinning. "You do, don't you." 

"It was a long time ago."

"I'll show you mercy this time," Dorian allowed. "But you'd better brush up your vocabulary." 

"Tell me about your dracolisks." 

"You're just trying to change the subject."

"I told you about my goats."

"Very well. They were a rare breed of dracolisk, as beautiful as they were intelligent. A lineage said to be gifted by Urthemiel himself.”

“Is that so.”

“He fashioned them from pure river clay and his own scales, and he baked them in his fire. That's the story, anyway." 

Cullen looked thoughtful. Dorian had come to learn that he liked little bits of lore like this. "An interesting myth," he said. "Of course, elves and humans must have tamed the dracolisk prior to the coming of the ancient Tevinters." 

"Oh, yes. I've seen them-- and our breed specifically-- depicted on the walls of ancient Qarin temples, temples built long before my ancestors joined the Imperium."

"I'm imagining a version of you, in a slightly more elaborate costume, shrugging and saying, I suppose I’ll go along with this." 

"More or less!" Dorian grinned. "Divine origin or no, our dracolisks were truly amazing. Quick on their feet. Instant responses. They all knew their names, and they could let themselves out of the stables at will... it was always great fun for me as a boy. I remember my favorite mare got herself into the house one time! She’d gotten into my nursery to keep me company. I'd always give her treats, you see."

"Did you have a dracolisk that was your very own? Was that her?"

"I was going to have my very own," Dorian replied. "But you know my parents were smotheringly careful of me, the heir. I could only ride them under strict supervision, but of course I would sneak down to the stables and give them treats. My father intended to gift me the foal of that mare, who I loved best, with the idea that we would grow together."

"They're very long-lived, I've heard."

"Ordinarily," said Dorian, and Cullen must have caught his tone.

"What happened?" 

"They were the unfortunate victims of a plot against my family. An assassin intended to poison our dinner, to kill us all at the table, but our cook didn't like the taste of it. Something was off. So rather than waste the meat... it was passed on to the stables, and she made us a vegetable dish instead. It took days for the dracolisks to die... there was nothing that could be done for them."

"And the cook?"

"She was fine-- apparently some elves are immune to the plant that makes that poison. But she was heartbroken. She loved the dracolisks too, and she thought she was giving them a treat." 

"I'm sorry."

"Me too. Centuries of lineage-- snuffed out. They were innocent. The mare died with her head in my lap." Dorian felt a warty snout butting against his shoulder, and he hugged Kallisto, what a good boy. "We could have purchased related dracolisks from other nobles in the region, but... father didn't have the heart for it after that." 

"Did you ever find out who hired the poisoner?"

"Our Antivan spymaster found it all out. Thank the Maker for her wisdom and restraint; initially, half the household thought it was the cook, and they were ready to boil her alive. Even the other elves! It was terrible-- but Inez, who was said to be elfblooded herself, knew that scrap of trivia about the poison immunity. She got to the bottom of it all and helpfully murdered my father's cousin. Fed him to his own dracolisks, from what I heard. His were, of course, not as smart or as loyal as ours..."

Cullen looked stunned. "Your own family. "

"That's Tevinter, silly." Dorian smiled reassuringly. "Anyway, dear stupid cousin Octavius. If only he'd waited a decade, father would have to make him the heir-- and then everyone would be happy! Him, me, the dracolisks." 

"I'm truly sorry, Dorian."

Dorian couldn't quite match a name to Cullen's expression. It made his skin itch. "Now, that's all in the past," he said. "I have my most beautiful one here, and I just know we'll be good friends." 

Now Dorian had a passing familiarity with Cullen's faces now; you could always tell what he was thinking, in part because he was blunt and he'd tell you, but also because of his eyes. Those deep hooded eyes turned such a sorrowful look to Dorian that he feared, for one intense moment, that he might know what it was really about. 

But the moment passed. They had come to a scene of conflict. Just anyone might have missed it, but Cullen’s keen eye caught the signs of a struggle. There were curious scorch marks on an oak tree, just barely there, hidden against the darkness of the bark. Once they stepped off the road and went down the embankment, however, the white birches showed clear marks of a magical conflict. Amazingly, the forest had not burnt down, and whatever happened had concluded quickly enough: there were four dead Venatori laying in various pieces, one of them further from the rest, his red hands around an opened throat. 

“Friends of Leliana, you think?” Dorian mused as they went about the bodies. Kallisto honked from the path above, and danced about anxiously.

Cullen moved very carefully among the dead. He’d had years of investigation in his repertoire. “Possibly,” Cullen said. “Whoever did this knew how to fight mages. So far it looks like an ambush.”

“True, these blasts look wild, as if cast in a panic.” Dorian ran his gloved hand slowly over a tree. “Although the Venatori are normally so incompetent… it’s hard to tell.” He frowned at the bodies. “Their hands and heads are cut off.” 

“A countermeasure against suspected abominations,” Cullen replied. He was turning a severed head to look at its eyes. “If they lose control upon death, at least the monster is weakened then. It makes it easier to kill.” 

Dorian couldn’t help but frown. “I suppose you have a lot of experience in this way.” 

Cullen looked up, and he seemed to sense the unease. “These are bad men, Dorian,” he said.

“Yes— well. They made this choice. You’re right.” Dorian didn’t know if he should back away so quickly from what bothered him, but, well, perhaps he was only being silly. Of course Cullen had dispatched renegade mages and abominations. 

While Cullen went to the fourth body, which lay further than the others, Dorian set about to check them over for anything left behind. They still carried amounts of coin, rations, water, and the various gleanings of books and amulets and rings they had taken in their time in Ferelden. So odd, so very odd! 

“It’s all here,” Dorian said. He held up an amulet, a whale’s tooth on a silver cord. In Tevinter they were called the favor of minor sea-gods, from the days of the old pantheon.

“What’s all here?”

“Everything, as far as I can tell. Whoever killed them didn’t even take anything. Look. Magic items, even runes.” 

“I know that Charter prefers to travel quick and light,” Cullen replied, “but she shouldn’t be so careless.”

“Did you find anything on that one?” Dorian motioned to the fourth body.

“He might have been interrogated.”

Dorian raised his eyebrows. “That sounds like Charter and friends, doesn’t it, then?” 

Cullen was looking over the ground, now, as if trying to find footprints among the leaflitter, stones, and moss. There wasn’t much to go on. For a moment, Dorian thought he saw a heavy boot-print, but then he realized it was probably only Cullen when they slid down the embankment. 

For a time, Cullen continued to look around the scene, but it offered up no other clues. He seemed annoyed and slightly off, in a way that Dorian could not decipher. 

“Why do I get the feeling there’s something else?” Dorian asked him.

“It’s nothing— it’s. It’s I don’t like that.. Never mind. We’ll have a chance to compare notes when we reach the next camp.”

Dorian smirked. “You don’t like the idea that Leliana runs her people a certain way, and she doesn’t tell you. Is that it? The left and right hands, not knowing what they’re doing?”

Cullen heaved a sigh; Dorian wouldn’t press, but he sensed his remark had fallen close to truth. 

Some two hours later, Cullen them out of the forest into what looked like an empty field. Broomlike grass and weeds grew everywhere there, and several tree saplings had a few years to rise. Dorian had seen a few fields like this one across Ferelden: hemmed in by hedges or marked with stone walls, so you knew it had been farmed once, but the blight and the war had taken its toll. Perhaps the family moved away into the city for work; perhaps they didn't have as much manpower to work all the fields now. Or perhaps they all were dead.

Kallisto was beginning to struggle at this point. The morning’s excitement had given him a spike of energy, but now the reserves were all but burned through. Dorian had fed him little strips of dried meat from his rations— and from the rations taken from the Tevinters. It seemed safe enough, anyway. 

As they crossed the field, Dorian saw the remnants of a burnt-out house, those little rounded dwellings with the turf or thatch tops. It was a moment's melancholy; once they crossed the stone wall into the adjacent field, they were set upon by shouting peasants.

Young men with rakes came running up to them. Kallisto squawked and bounded away, startling the mare. Cullen released her reins and went forward to intercept the Fereldans; he held his hands clear, making no move for his sword. Dorian could guess how their conversation went, to judge from the sharp looks sent his way. Of course he knew how it must appear to them: Dorian, a Tevinter, carrying a staff, with a horse laden with other staves. Still, it smarted a little; he supposed he was being sensitive, and anyway, the Inquisition-issue armor was so distinctive and ugly, how could you mistake it?

Farm-folk were watching this play out. An older man in a leather apron came limping up to them. Four older women were talking, their heads bent together in a conspiracy of white caps. 

One of the young man began to push past Cullen, shouting at Dorian. Two things happened at once: Kallisto wheeled around and stamped back over to Dorian, his voice rumbling with a metallic clatter. And Cullen grabbed the young pup of a farmboy by his scruff, saying, "No," and all this was of great detriment to their bravado. 

The old man hurried now, and it was all sorted out quickly, though the young men glowered. When Dorian was motioned to join up, Cullen said to him, "They thought we were Venatori. There's been a rogue demon spotted in the area, and they thought we'd something to do with it. Everything's settled now."

Pfft. If Dorian was going to go about wreaking havoc, some stringy, stray lost demon was far from his choice as an illustrious necromancer. He could manage much worse than that, even as a child. So he just smiled weakly at the people and their sunburnt, suspicious faces. At least the old gentleman seemed to know a thing or two.

Kallisto was vibrating with nerves, but Dorian was mildly confident the dracolisk wasn't going to kick anyone. His bulk, however, was smothering.

"My grand-niece says her brother-in-law met the Inquisitor in person," the old chap reported. "A good man. A good soul. He didn't have to, but he helped bring back a lost druffalo."

Dorian saw Cullen suppress a sigh: because of course dear Maxwell would do such a thing.

But it seemed at least one of the young men wasn't going to let this go, because he glowered, "If you're supposed to be a templar, then prove it. You could just be saying that." 

"Now, Jack," the old man warned.

Dorian hadn't heard how Cullen introduced himself to them originally, but he supposed that would have been a smart thing to do. Templars were generally well-liked by the people, and if Dorian was a loose mage running around, at least Cullen could keep an eye on him. (The mere thought.. )

Cullen did that little thing he did when he pressed on his eyes-- the thing that made you think he wanted to just put his fucking eyes out. Ah yes, and then he sighed the sigh that always followed that. When his gloved hands came away, Cullen smiled tightly and said, "No, I understand. I told you, I was a templar, but this is how you'll know."

Dorian heard that a templar could just double you over by clenching his fist-- well, if you were a mage of course, it would choke you out through your own mana. Ohh, if only it worked on ordinary people, and if only Cullen could still do that, because it would have been lovely to see firsthand just then.

Instead, Cullen did something that was impressive yet gentle. Because templars were also brothers and sisters of a religious order, Cullen performed a benediction, and he spoke in a resonant and compassionate archaic Tevene as he blessed them. This seemed to strike a chord, and two of them, along with the old man, lowered their eyes and made the sign of the Sacred Flames. (Dorian noticed that the southerners began the gesture with their right hand instead of their left.) 

"Don't worry, Dorian is very kind," Cullen told them, then. "And he likes to help people. He's my friend. We're just passing through to our next camp, but we rescued a dracolisk from the Venatori... and he's injured."

Dorian decided he wasn't going to be too put out by this whole business. Cullen seemed more bothered by it, truth be told, but in the end, they were given a place to rest and food for all.

The old man chatted kindly with them on the way to the barn. He apologized once more for the farmboy's behavior. "Hard to be a young man, forced to watch your country go up in flames around you. Nothing you can do about it." 

Dorian thought privately that might be the case with some of these Venatori as well. He had seen young faces when he turned back the cowls of the dead. Had frustration with the Qunari turned them, ultimately, upon this path? Or were they always cruel and rotten, drawn like flies to the stink of a tyrant's message?

They were given the use of one of the barns on the western meadow. There hadn't been animals there for a time; war and slaughter had thinned the herds all over the country. The people were drying hay here, and it looked inviting, straw everywhere, with a good strong sunlight coming in through the slats. 

A gangly boy ran them up a basket of rations. Baked bread rolls with sheep's butter and some kind of sweet and sour jam. The warm bread came apart in Dorian's hands, and its rich taste was of heavy cream. They'd left the quarry camp without so much as breakfast.

The boy hung around for a little while, simply watching. Cullen smiled and asked his name, but the boy laughed and ran away in that wild way that they do. Cullen only chuckled softly and shook his head. He was always gentle with children. 

Kallisto meanwhile gorged himself on salted ham. Dorian learned that the farm-folk turned out the pigs in the forests here in autumn, so they could get fat on acorns. Their meat would last the people through the harsh winters here. Normally they would be loath to part with so much salt pork, but Dorian had given them the coins found on the Venatori bodies-- it didn't matter whose face was stamped on the coins. Gold and silver were accepted everywhere. With this coin they could send to Redcliffe or even Denerim for goods they needed, new iron tools, cookpots, seed-potatoes of different varieties. (Cullen told him there were all different colors of potato, even purple). 

Once the dracolisk was bloated and happy, he went down on his knobby knees, honked softly, and thumped over on his side. His sharp face nuzzled blissfully into the straw and his long blue forked tongue lolled out. Cullen remarked it was odd to see the dracolisk laying on the ground, but Dorian explained they didn't stand like horses to sleep. They curled up like dragons were said to do when they slept. 

With drowsy conversation, quiet, fresh air, and warm sun coming in, it was only a matter of time before Cullen fell asleep again. Good for him. What he needed was a good healing sleep, and as much of it as possible. Dorian watched him for a time, the slow rise and fall of his chest. The way his fingers lay open, twitching slightly from time to time. Sleep erased the tension on his face, and he looked young again, like he might be around Dorian’s age. He truly was a handsome man, even if he showed no interest in the attention his physique and face attracted. Despite his reputation for villainy and abuse— or perhaps, unfortunately, because of it— there were a few in Skyhold who might go to him, if he’d even given the slightest encouragement. 

Yet rumors and gossip crept into the absence of any clear romantic or sexual companion. Cullen was said, variously, to have bedded no less than the Hero of Ferelden, the Champion of Kirkwall, Anders the Apostate, Lady Vivienne, Knight-Captain Rylen, and of course, Dorian himself. 

No wonder the man looked so exhausted all the time.

Yet, Dorian didn’t think the man had anyone. Married to his work, you might say. His loneliness and need for comfort were powerful attractants to Dorian, who was accustomed to calloused men, men who had to be that way. Or men who chose to be, to bury their loathsome little secrets once the indiscretion had completed. It put Dorian at unease to dwell too deeply on what Cullen liked or wanted in life, or what his history might be. He simply might be lonely enough to blur the lines with Dorian, craving any kind of human touch or kindness. Dorian couldn’t help but think of how he had responded last night, so warm and gentle, laughing unreservedly— stoned of course, but it seemed to do him good. 

Dorian wouldn’t let himself dissect this anymore. Anyway, it was a good time to catch up on some reading; he'd hardly been able to look their discoveries.

The one turned out to be a book on shapeshifting, specifically the indigenous traditions of the region. Dorian was unable to determine what use the Venatori would have for this. Perhaps they were just taking books of magic as they found them. (Or it could be that they couldn't read the Fereldan language and thought they had something of deep significance?)

The other book was about the native traditions of blood magic. Hmm. Perhaps these two books were part of a collection on maleficarum. Wasn't shapeshifting banned in the south, or did he misremember? (This would be a good thing to know). 

Dorian found nothing new nor shocking in the book of blood magic.. The indigenous people used it, like the elves did, and there seemed to be a variety of uses. They had reached the same conclusion in the south as well as the north, that there were different kinds of blood magic. One appeared to be entirely reliant on demons, each act powered by their favor, tit-for-tat, or a kind of artificial power taught by them. The other type, much less understood, did not involve demons or spirits, and appeared to be entirely powered by the user alone. This second type was considered much more powerful, and it did not destroy the user's mind or body as with those who relied on demons.

That must be horrifying. Those poor people. To be born a blood mage like that, to have this incredible unasked-for power. No way of truly stopping it or getting rid of it. 

Dorian always knew he would be a necromancer. There was a rightness to it, and it came to him with ease. If its open practice were to be banned-- a close call at a few points in history-- then Dorian didn't know what he would do. 

He must have fallen asleep himself, the book spread on his chest. He heard Cullen say, "A little light reading, then?"

Dorian sniffed. "Oh yes." He came up on his elbow in the straw. "But your southern blood magic-- it's that boring." 

Cullen looked around him. The shadows were long on the wall of the barn. "I think we're near out of daylight," he said. "I can't believe I slept so much." 

"Well, it's good for you," Dorian replied. "Anyway, Kallisto needs his rest as well. We can leave early tomorrow-- unless you want to go blundering around in the dark. We could find that pesky little demon."

A strand of hay was trapped in Cullen's curls. His hair had revealed itself much frizzier, much coarser in their time outdoors, and it was truly delightful. Cullen seemed to sense that something was amiss, because he frowned and rubbed his head. Ah, it was gone now. "I don't mind staying," he said, "especially if there really is a loose demon about. I didn't know if you were comfortable here, however. "

"These people have reason to fear unknown Tevinters," replied Dorian. "Especially ones carrying a staff. I take no offense." 

Cullen's brow pinched, but then he nodded. "It doesn't mean it still can't... be tiresome."

Dorian didn't want his sympathy. After all, any other Tevinters were welcome to join dear old Krem and himself down in the south. "Come. Let's go find the demon."

Throughout the day, word had spread of the Inquisition men, and especially of Dorian, the 'good Tevinter.' The people of the small village watched them cautiously from their fields and homes as they went about on their investigation. A woolly stream of sheep was wending its way back to the home pens, bleating softly, and their shepherd-- and old man with a straw hat-- explained that he'd lost an animal to the demon. It had ripped the sheep apart without eating anything of the carcass. That was days ago.

One of the old women said that there had been a green rift that opened down toward the next village. The Herald (here she made the sign of the Sacred Flames) had closed it, but perhaps one of the demons had gone stray. She had been talking with her sister in that village, and someone had seen a ghastly creature hovering around in the twilight. Thankfully, a mabari barked and chased it away.

Dorian and Cullen agreed that it almost sounded like a shade. Some demons could come out of the Fade full of rage and sickly cunning, but some shades could be foolish, reluctant, gloomy. Still dangerous of course.

More reports of unusual activity yielded information on flocks of crows, strange rashes appearing, and the birth of a two-headed calf-- the first of the season.

Then a young woman of the village said that she saw glowing eyes in the darkness just last night. She'd seen it in the edge of the field where Cullen and Dorian had emerged from the break in the wall. The woman was clearly no-nonsense, and when she looked Dorian in the eye, it was from a near level height. Her braided, beaded hair suggested something of the Chasind people.

Gently, Cullen asked if it might have been an elf they saw. Their eyes glowed like animal eyes in the dark. Dorian knew this, too, from as early childhood with the elves of his home estate, and as recently as Skyhold. Staggering back from the tavern drunk at night, only to have glowing eyes rush out of the dark at you, and it's only Sera being a shit. 

However the Chasind woman wasn't having any of it. She said she knew elf eyes; one pair looked like they might be elven, but the other wasn't. The two figures had stood by the stone wall, watched her without words, and disappeared. By morning light, she checked the prints and found only one set, one massive set of armored boots-- but she had heard no clank of armor, and whatever it was, it had moved in total silence. The Ghost Knight.

"Watch yourself," she'd said.

"Ooh, the Ghost Knight," Dorian said to Cullen in a fun voice, later. "Do you think it could be real?" 

Cullen shrugged. "Possibly."

"A memory from the Orlesian wars. Wasn't there a battle near this village?"

"Yes, or the echo of the Blight. A lost bannerman." Cullen looked thoughtful. "Though, I don't think I've ever heard of a shade leaving footprints. They don't tend to interact completely with their environment. But you tell me, necromancer."

"They can seem very real, very intensely real, but only for a short time. The tracker mentioned the prints went a good way into the forest before she lost them. I can't imagine a shade expending that kind of energy. It's an unthinking, raw emotion that makes them materialize. I can't picture one just... galumphing off." 

"Well, it silently galumphed off, if that helps."

"Something tells me that there are two separate occurrences here. The loose demon from the rift, which may be a shade, and... two elves, traveling at night, because they see in the dark." 

"And the other elf didn't leave footprints because he was likely in lighter armor."

"Hmm, but I liked the idea of the Ghost Knight a bit better." Dorian looked him over and chuckled. “Any chance that these people saw Charter and some bulky friend? You know, since we didn’t find those bodies too terribly far away?”

“I was thinking the same,” Cullen replied. “It is certainly possible. But why didn’t they identify themselves to these people?” 

“Because she’s a rogue, my dear?”

“Would it have hurt to just say, ‘don’t worry, Inquisition, go back to bed’?” 

“It hurts the mystique.” Dorian grinned. “You know how rogues are.”

Cullen grunted. “Well. Let’s go then. Let’s go look for this shade or demon or, or whatever it is."


	5. Chapter 5

It was a middling adventure, all told. Nothing that either of them hadn’t seem a dozen times before. A hundred times, maybe, for Cullen— to take into account the day-to-day relentless tempo of nasty Kirkwall and its occult dramatics. Cullen had probably forgotten more about demons than many mages would ever know. He truly was fascinating to talk to on these things. Dorian had rarely the pleasure of speaking with someone whose expertise and knowledge could near match his own. Especially someone without magic.

The only jolt of alarm was provided by someone crashing in the distance. Then the deep voice of a mabari barked in the underbrush. It turned out to be villagers, the young fellows coming about in the dark. One was holding a makeshift torch. They were armed better than rakes this time, but not better by much. A boar spear, a woodcutter's ax, and a sword that looked Orlesian. They blinked owlishly in the light of Dorian’s wisp. The mabari growled and whined.

"We have this under control," Cullen told them. "Go back home."

Dorian remembered what the old man had said. The anger of the young men. The needing to do something. Playfully, he said, "Oh, why not let them come along. They look like they have a fighting spirit."

Cullen glanced his way, brow furrowed.

"We'll be safer in a group, at any rate," he added-- he knew that little dig would work well with Cullen. Hadn't he complained at being left alone with just Dorian?

"Very well." Cullen launched into a quick set of instructions, basically to keep the lads from skewering each other. “In the event of danger, Dorian will cast Barrier; everyone stand close and then disperse once it hits. It might feel cold and surprise you, but it is painless. You'll know when it lands on you because you'll be glowing blue."

Fortunately they weren't out long before the mabari began to snarl. It began to jump and bark around the edges of a ruined home; it looked much like the other that they had seen, that crumbled roundhouse as they first came upon the farmland. The shade billowed out of the doorway, hunched, regretful, confused; Dorian felt a momentary pang of sadness, wondering if the spirit were borne from a memory of someone who lived here. Someone who was trying to go home. 

It was over quickly. Cullen let the boys have a go, and he didn't let them get too scratched up. One got a slash for effect, barely tearing through the barrier. Back in the village they were hailed as heroes. 

Dorian found himself in an off mood, but he smiled and treated the Fereldans warmly. Perhaps he was only tired. Cullen seemed to be watching him closely all the while, in a way he wasn't sure he liked. They were fed a roasted chicken, its skin rubbed with butter and herbs. Dorian tasted rosemary, which he would have thought wouldn't grow here from the cold. A black-haired woman brought them a bottle of something that gleamed red and orange in the firelight. Wine perhaps?

But Cullen knew it at once, and he took his cup from his pack for a taste. His face brightened, and he thanked her graciously; Dorian could recognize a thread of playful interest in the woman, warm and harmless, for she glanced his way also. He winked at her, and, ah, there it was. Though it would come to nothing, Dorian liked to flirt with the southern lasses now and again. There was something to be said about the restorative powers of a fiery spirit.

"So, what's this?" Dorian held out his cup. 

"Mead. Honey-wine." 

"I've never had it. I suppose it would be considered an elven drink in Tevinter." 

It had a sweet yet also heavy taste, and there was something rich and bright in it. 

"We kept bees, and we'd make mead at home," Cullen told him. "You can put anything in it. Flower-heads, raspberries, blackberries, strawberries, spices if you can get them. I always liked it with a bit of pepper."

They sat in a companionable silence before the fire made in the common yard. The noise and commotion in the village was coming to a close; these people worked hard, and they'd need to be up with the sun come the morning. Dorian helped himself to a second cup of mead, but Cullen only took the one. He was turning the empty cup about in his fingers, looking into the fire, and Dorian wondered what was on his mind.

The reverie ended when Kallisto came up behind them, eyes glowing, his bumpy snout sniffing down the back of Cullen’s neck. Cullen looked like he might jump out of his skin. A year was definitely knocked off his life just then, for sure. They gave the dracolisk the remainder of the chicken, and he gulped it down all at once and sniffed their hands for more. Cullen petted him and scratched beneath his chin.

"Listen, ah, Dorian," Cullen said as they walked Kallisto back to the barn. There was an awkward tone in his voice that Dorian had rarely heard before. Awkward at times, yes, our dear Cullen, but this was different in a way he didn’t know he liked.

Tamping down his own nerves, Dorian said casually, "I'm listening." 

But Cullen didn't continue, and he just smiled distractedly over the bony shoulders of Kallisto between them. They got the dracolisk back into the barn, where he collapsed in his pile of straw. Cullen seemed at a loss of what to do then, and stood about in his armor.

Dorian supposed he'd get to it soon enough. Wanting to do something with his hands, Dorian began to check that the staves and the books were still covered in straw where he'd left them. He set his staff against a bale where he'd made his little nook. They couldn't have a fire, lantern, or torch in here, given the towering heaps and bales of straw, the drying racks of herbs, and so forth, but Dorian's conjured light gave no heat. The wisp rolled around lazily in a ball of soft blue illumination.

"I've been thinking about you," Cullen started, with the slowly morphing expression of a man who realized that was not how he wanted to begin.

"Oh, good," Dorian pretended to preen, "I'm telling you, I require your complete attention." 

Cullen snorted. Perfect-- his weird expression flashed with familiar annoyance, and he looked himself again, if just for a moment. This was rapidly becoming a terrifying experience. As every passing moment became as torture, Cullen slowly unlaced his ugly Inquisition cuirass and laid his things aside. Then he sat on a haybale and motioned for Dorian to take a seat across from him. In the roving light of the wisp, his face looked friendly, albeit a forced friendliness, as if he were dredging up kindness from a murky place of complete exhaustion.

Dorian felt the cold twinge of terror from his boyhood, when he’d been naughty, and his father had summoned him into the study. There he’d sat on a bench beneath a lurid set of theater masks and awaited his doom. Rubbing his crossed arms, Dorian did as invited, settling down on the straw seat. Popping his eyebrows, he sniffed, “I’m not going to like this, am I.”

“You might.” Cullen smiled. “I hope you do.” 

Dorian feared him then as never before.

Cullen grasped about for how to begin, and then he smiled painfully again, and said: “When I was growing up, templars would come to the village sometimes. They were asked to check in on the mage who lived there with his wife. For his service in the war, the king granted him freedom… and the chantry wasn’t so sure about it.” 

“I can imagine. I spoke with Lady Yasmin about this very topic." Dorian went into playful squeamishness in self-defense. "You're not going to lecture me on Circle mage politics, are you?"

“No— the story’s not about Wilhelm. More about the templars— about me.” Cullen re-settled himself on the haybale. He looked as though he was finding the thread of what he wanted to say, and Dorian recalled, for some reason, the weary yet gentle way he had come to respond to the farm people here. The priestly way of it. The templars were trained as warriors, but they were a religious order at heart. 

Cullen began again, and there was only the slightest waver in his beautiful voice. “There was a templar I had seen a few times. Casimir, from Highever. He must be dead now, but, I’ll remember him forever. He was so handsome and noble, so perfectly good… so intelligent. So interesting. He had a scar across one eye where a demon had burned him, and he always wore these exotic prayer beads from Rivain. I was in love with him.” Cullen grinned at his own foolishness. “I begged him to take me with him. I’m embarrassed to admit how young I was, but, I assure you, I was desperately serious.” 

Dorian could say nothing. His lungs burned from lack of air. It was just as he feared, and hoped, and he didn't know how to react just yet. 

Cullen continued, gaining momentum in what he wanted to say.

“I’m sure Casimir and his fellow templars had a chuckle over that. But they weren’t unkind. And my father… we were playing out in the fields and he hugged me suddenly, and said, the Maker makes us all different, and all that mattered was that I was happy. I didn’t have to know what I wanted yet, but he and mother would love me no matter what. I didn’t realize until much later that it was a thing that people could be ashamed of. I’m telling you this because I know that your experience must have been entirely opposite. I can see how it eats at you… and I’m sorry.” 

Dorian would run it over and over in his mind some time later. Too much to absorb now, with the blood roaring in his ears. Despite the cold of the barn, sweat tingled in his scalp, and he felt frigid and too hot all at once. Cullen was looking at him expectantly now and Dorian, numb with horror, blinked as though he'd been called on to answer a question he'd only half-heard. "Ah, well... there you have it. I don't deny it." 

“You don’t have to look like that. Nothing’s changed. Though I know you might feel… ambushed, in a way. I apologize. I’ve… I didn’t know how to tell you, and I know that I can’t erase your experiences, but I hope that you can begin to understand that it is the recent Tevinter mindset that is shameful. Not you.” 

Who talked like this, honestly? Dorian curled his lip in natural sarcasm, and he said, “I suppose everyone knows about that ghastly scene in Redcliffe with my father.” 

“Only the War Table. We don't judge you.”

Dorian was beginning, cautiously, to return to himself. Nothing bad had happened, and Cullen handled this with a compassion and sensitivity that he didn't expect. Dorian crossed his arms now, half from annoyance as from cold, and he made a face. “I thought I heard you upbraiding old Mother Giselle. Were you defending my honor? Is that what that was about?"

“She was inappropriate… and the chantry always thinks it can meddle in everything.” 

Dorian said, casually, “So," while he gathered his forces.

Cullen spread his hands. “So… I wanted to tell you I knew. I want to say that, genuinely, I want you to be happy here in the south. I want you to be happy and enjoy yourself here."

“I see.”

“I, I should have perhaps picked a better time, but there you are.”

“Oh dear. Was it my poor dracolisk boyhood story? Is that where you turned your corner?"

“Yes, a bit. I’ll admit that.” Cullen smirked in chagrin. 

For the flash of an instant, Dorian sensed weakness. Usually men like himself would only reveal themselves openly on the cusp of a conquest. Only when it was a sure thing. It was unusual to just leave it so open-ended. It was almost a breach of decorum! Wanting to go on the attack, to launch into some elegant riposte, Dorian raised his eyebrows just so and said: "What am I to do now with this information, I wonder... " 

But Cullen only shrugged and said, "We can talk more about it another time, if you like. But I'm-- I'm tired, so, good night."

Later, Dorian settled in by Kallisto, who felt like a leather chair…one that breathed against you. That hadn't gone quite how he imagined. He had fiddled with a few scenarios. This by far had exceeded his expectations, all but for one thing, one very major thing. What had gone wrong? Why this unasked question in the air? 

He'd told Dorian to have fun. To enjoy himself. It was clear that meant other people. Then he just went off to bed, or, rather, he'd gone off to the other end of the barn to lay in a smelly horse blanket and freeze half to death. Dorian didn't even think he'd fallen asleep right away, anyway-- the man worried about everything. Dorian likewise stewed in his thoughts, warming his hands with magic, pulling his rough blanket up around himself and the dracolisk. 

In the long cold time it took sleep to take him, Dorian fretted, worried, and finally--- plotted. Cullen wasn't going to get away so easily, oh no. He didn't get to just unload his confession to make himself feel better. Cullen had known for quite some time and he'd said nothing-- worse, the bastard toyed with him and enjoyed it. He was afraid to make his move, and so he'd done this to absolve himself. Typical Cullen, really, pushing everyone away. No wonder Varric had done this to him. No wonder he'd melted down like he did.

It was just as he deserved.

So Dorian plotted. The barbarian might shock and terrorize with his fearsome displays, but a learned mind had many weapons, and the civilized man would ultimately win. Sweet thoughts of revenge lulled him to a frigid sleep. 

Just before dawn he woke to the sound of Cullen retching in the field.


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning, after having made their goodbyes to the village people, they pressed on southerly to the lakeside camp. The horses were laden with loot for Leliana’s people to take back to Skyhold, and Dorian knew that Cullen would want a report. It all seemed quite normal, and Dorian left him with that illusion for some time.

It was thankfully a warmer day than before, and Dorian had to shrug off his cloak after a while. The sun came around as if it had forgotten about Ferelden and was checking to see if it was all still there. A beautiful day, really, fresh air, and a forest that rang with birdsong.

They were riding this time, and Kallisto trotted behind them for the most part. Sometimes his attention snagged on some interesting thing to be found in the grass or the underbrush. Elfroot salve promoted the healing of his wounds, and his hide looked much brighter in the dappled forest light.

Cullen slouched in the saddle, his face grey beneath the stupid Inquisition-issue hood. There were dark prints beneath his eyes, and his voice rasped when he began to speak after long bouts of silence. Despite his clear exhaustion, he exerted effort to be kind and patient. Oh yes, he was just living up the role of a gentle chantry brother, even if a former one. 

Dorian decided to take him at his word from the night before. When he felt good and ready, he smiled and announced: “You said we could talk about it, so, let’s talk about it.”

_You are going to rue this day, commander._

Cullen seemed to sense that he had moved himself into a poor position on the board. “Very well,” he said with weakly disguised suspicion.

“I really don’t know how this is supposed to go,” Dorian said. “Matters being so different in Tevinter… ” He lifted a glove to his chest like a matron with the vapors.

“You don’t have to… you’re not supposed to do anything.” Cullen looked at him, as if judging his sincerity. “Ask what you like.” 

“Do you go through that whole… ‘when did you know’ and ‘how did you tell your parents’ and so on, and so forth?” 

“I’ve already told you about those things, but… I don’t know. I suppose for most of the time it was easily communicated who was interested in what.”

“Ahh yes," said Dorian blithely, "I did hear Maxwell say that the templars are all gay.”

Cullen rolled his eyes. “And Circle mages are _all brats_."

“So, are they? The templars, all gay.”

“I can’t speak for the entire order,” said Cullen, with a smirk, “but I had my suspicions about the templars that I've slept with.” 

Dorian grinned. Oh good, hopefully he was going to have some fun with this too. “How nice for you. It all sounds so cozy.”

“Not quite. There is a lot of poison in the order, too. Anyone with promise can join, if they are found worthy, but the nobles have used the templars as a dumping-ground for their extra sons. So, there’s a lot of entitlement, resistance, and bitterness.”

“And that is before the unique challenges of your profession.”

Cullen nodded. “They’re in pain, hopelessly addicted, and chained to a life they never wanted. They come to blame the mages for their predicament… and it can get ugly. The chantry is at ultimately at fault, and we should have never been pitted against each other like that.” 

Dorian began to experience regret. He didn’t want to delve too deeply in a contentious history. The point was to have some fun with Cullen here, just as he deserved. “I didn’t intend to steer us to so serious a place,” he said. “I apologize. I was only curious.”

“I don’t know how much more I can tell you,” Cullen mused. “I'd wager you have more experience than I do.”

Hahah! Perfect. Cullen had attempted his remark to shield him from further prying, but it only opened him up to more questions. It was a natural lead-in to Dorian’s perfectly innocent: “Oh, I don’t know, what is your experience exactly?” 

Cullen smiled very tightly, in that way where his lips disappear. Oh yes. It was the first major crack of his resolve. Look how perfectly good and patient he’s trying to be. Look at him trying to be so above this. (Dorian wanted to cackle and click his heels.)

Then as though he were reading lines off an inventory, Cullen said, “I have been with both men and women, but more men than women.” He was saying it like, ‘two pairs boots, one sack of beans, three portions hard-tack.’ 

“So you’re one of those,” Dorian mused. “Men and women both, so, what about… at the same time?”

The black mare must have sensed the downward shift in her rider’s mood. She made an uncertain whinny-rumble. Cullen sighed. “Did you just seriously ask me that question." 

“You said I could! You gave me permission!”

“Dorian, honestly.” Cullen sounded neither defensive nor uncomfortable, just annoyed, so Dorian helped himself to continue.

“So, yes, is what you're saying.”

“Fine— yes.” 

Dorian grinned. “Oh, my.” He was getting the vapors again.

“So what of it," said Cullen. “What's there to be scandalized about? You do know that Andraste herself enjoyed sex. She had many children. A husband. An elven lover. If you think you're going to embarrass me...” 

“Oh, no no, please, I’m not making any judgment of you.” Dorian used his own language against him now. “It’s that I only wanted to understand. It’s hard to picture you in this way. You always seem so… ” Grouchy, tragic, alone. “… _mysterious_.”

“It’s really no one’s business but mine— “

“And all of theirs, apparently.”

Cullen was killing him with his eyes. “—and I don’t know why I let you lead me down this conversation.”

_Because you felt guilty you led me on, you bastard._

Dorian maintained his innocence. “I’m sorry, Cullen, aren’t we friends? Can’t we have a friendly discussion?” 

“I think you’re enjoying this.”

“Oh, truly. It’s so refreshing to be able to talk about this _so openly_ , without judgment. Without shame. So what kind of men do you like?”

Dorian saw the muscles standing out in his jaw. Cullen's teeth were going to chip at this rate. Or cast sparks, for the metal ones. 

Well, Dorian decided he would let that be. Time to move into endgame. “I’d just wondered. You didn’t seem to be with anyone so far.” After a careful count to five, he added, offhandedly, “That is, you aren’t with anyone, are you?”

“No, I’m not,” Cullen answered, losing the last of his attempted benevolence. Good, it was so fake, and Dorian preferred their usual lively swipes at each other. It’s just that he was sorry Cullen looked so tired and worn-out this morning, but then he reminded himself why that was. Cullen had only himself to blame.

“That’s a pity,” Dorian said, meeting his eyes. “A handsome man like you, and so intelligent. So interesting.”

Cullen’s face revealed he knew a trap awaited him. He didn’t know where it would spring and snap, but it was close.

Dorian dropped all pretense and asked, “Why do you think Cole sent you to my room the other night?”

There it was. He’d toyed with Cullen like a cat with a mouse, and then came the killing blow. He waited eagerly for Cullen to deny, to bluster, to try to get himself out of his one. Perhaps he might even stammer.

But he did not expect Cullen to just sigh, look bleak, and answer: “Sex. Sleep.”

His eyebrows raising at such a frank admission, Dorian said, “But instead you went back to your cold, nasty tower.”

“I did.” 

When Dorian ran this scenario through his mind, he imagined Cullen sputtering and red-faced. Perhaps he should have done this when they were dismounted and walking instead. That way he could have slithered up and taken his arms. Kissed him meltingly. Dorian should have revealed his own interest in a better fashion, but Cullen’s honesty caught him off-guard. He hated to be imprecise. 

Now that this wasn’t as fun anymore, Dorian sniffed and said, “You just had to play the martyr.”

“That’s not it.”

Dorian wasn’t yet so desperate to ask, then _whyyy_ , like some spoiled child. But the mischief of the morning had followed a night of pained confusion. “You toyed with me,” he said, more softly than he intended. “You knew, and you led me on.”

Cullen went to run his hands through his hair, but he was wearing that hood. The reins fell on his shoulder. His face twisted with emotion, and then he sighed. Dismounted.

Dorian’s bay didn’t care for whatever was now transpiring between them. The horse walked on, whisking his tail, until Dorian pulled him up short so he could drop down from the saddle.

Cullen was trying to work through what to say, that much was apparent on his face. He just gave up and blurted, “I’m sorry. It was wrong of me. I did enjoy your company, and it wasn’t fair. I didn’t mean for how it went. I didn’t know how to tell you… without… ” He pushed back his hood and just shrugged. “I’d hoped you would meet someone.” 

Dorian’s heart panged at the flash of agony revealed on his face. _What is the matter with you?_ But Dorian wasn’t about to let him off so easy. He’d done this to himself. He’d done this to himself! “You made me crazy wondering what it could mean,” he said. He had to stand up for himself. “I was sure no _normal_ man would take such liberties… but then, what if you were just that lonely? And you seem so lonely, Cullen. Was I imagining this? I thought to make the first move… in case you hesitated… but what if I was wrong?”

Cullen bowed his head, and then he went slowly to Dorian to squeeze his hand with both hands. “I’m sorry,” Cullen repeated. “I wish I’d had the resolve. I never intended to hurt you. I meant when I said that I wanted you to be happy here. What about— what about that chevalier you were talking to?”

Dorian turned away and pretended an interest in horse tack. He’d been rejected before, of course. Some people just didn’t have taste. There had been a few bad rejections, and that one truly awful experience which had singlehandedly destroyed his reputation forever. Cullen at least was attempting to show him compassion. He didn’t doubt that Cullen cared, or even that Cullen cared for him. But he wasn’t sure the reason that divided them now, and he was too prideful to ask. Dear Maker. He wasn’t the sort to stamp his foot and whine. 

He’d been rejected before, but it had been a long time since it had hurt this greatly. Reality struck him like a fist, and an ice-cold dizziness was now radiating out from the impact site.

Dorian became aware that Cullen was watching him, and, horrifyingly, he thought Cullen might try to _give him a hug_. Oh no. This would not stand. He buried his feelings on this and threw on a cloak of brusque humor, which had served him well in the past.

“Even if I don’t understand your reasons,” Dorian told him, arching his brow just so. “At least now I know why you were so angry at Varric.” 

Cullen was judging whether or not to join him on this topic. He just sighed and said, “I have other, better reasons to be angry at Varric.”

“Mhhhm. But only this reason explains the nature of your revenge. Most fitting, I’d say.” Dorian decided he would make his face as smooth and disinterested as Lady Vivienne’s. This is what she would do. “You are still planning on following through on that, or did you back down?”

Cullen only seemed to half-hear him, and, his heart barely in it, or in anything else, he muttered, “I should stay out of it.”

“I liked you better when you were stoned,” Dorian decided. “You weren’t worried about shit then.”

Cullen smiled ruefully. His hooded eyes looked so full of sorrow.

It’s something to do with his health. It has to be. After all, hadn’t he worried he’d impose on Dorian? They’d talked about that. Was that it? Was he afraid of his nosebleeds, his nightmares, his teeth? His aches and pains? 

Dorian wanted time to think. Perhaps he’d talk to Cole. To Varric. He hadn’t fully given up, but it did hurt. He needed to think he still had an option.

Cullen seemed desperate to restore some normalcy between them. Every passing moment seemed to injure him. As much for Cullen as for himself, Dorian offered his hand, such as when he lost in a game of chess. Cullen didn’t understand the handshake until Dorian prompted him with a quirk of an eyebrow.

“Well, you can’t blame me for trying,” Dorian said, as if it were his habit to try to fuck everyone. “I hope there’s no hard feelings.”

“No, of course not,” Cullen said in such a soft, urgent voice that Dorian hoped his face didn’t show what it did to him. Remember Vivienne. Be Vivienne. “You’ve done nothing wrong. I made a mess of this.”

“And Varric, of course. How cruel of him to strand you with a devilishly handsome and charming Tevinter.”

In a begrudging tone, Cullen muttered, “I suppose he thought he was helping.”

“Boo. You were villains to each other, don’t forget that. He was trying to set you up like some stupid plot in his books.” Dorian wasn't going to let him roll over. "If you could even call it a plot."

Cullen snorted, and a smirk pulled now at the edges of his weary mouth. That’s a start. He said, “At least it’s past the season of getting stuck in a snowstorm together.”

“Oh yes, then I imagine we’d have to strip and huddle for life-saving warmth.”

“But you can make fire magically.”

“Nuh-uh-uh.” Dorian tutted. “Not in Varric’s story. In _Varric’s story_ we’d have to conserve body heat.”

Cullen smiled wearily. “That’s awful,” he said.

“That is literally the plot of one of his stories.”

“Maker.”

“It’s this awful highlander romance where a notorious rogue disguises himself as a chantry brother, and this no-nonsense lady templar chases him up into the Vinmarks.”

Cullen’s smile vanished. “Wh… what?”

“Yes, and then the snows fall. It’s ridiculous. And the Starkhaven accent is written out, too, phonetically. Do you have any idea how difficult that is for a second-language speaker? Honestly I had to read it out loud to understand it. At least Fiona had a laugh.”

But Cullen was staring off hard into middle distance. Then he snapped into focus. “The notorious rogue,” he said.

Dorian sensed something hidden, something dark, something juicy. Just the thing for raising his spirits. “Oh yes,” he breathed. “Disguises himself as a priest. The templar knows he’s up to something, but she doesn’t have enough proof to arrest him. Not yet. But she finds herself falling for his good looks and his melting Starkhaven brogue, which is supposed to sound appealing to you people.” 

Cullen grew so red in the face that Dorian thought his head would explode. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said in a deadly tone. “I can’t wait to congratulate Varric and Marian on their beautiful marriage.”

Dorian felt like Urthemiel in the chantry folk legends, beautiful and evil, hissing in the mortals’ ears. “Let’s get them a tacky present for their four-year anniversary.”

“I can’t believe he would write that about me,” he said. “As if— as if I’d ever… ”

Dorian laughed to have his suspicions confirmed. “For what it’s worth, the lady templar was the only interesting character in all that twaddle. There was a lot of conflict, a lot of growth. The stupid Starkhaven priest, who was actually a rogue, who was actually— sorry, _spoilers_ — a fantastically wealthy nobleman, as it turned out. That was just entirely ridiculous, that and the love scenes.” 

Cullen threw up his hands and went back to his horse. “I’ll get him for this. I swear. I had no idea.”

“That’s the spirit,” said Dorian, picturing himself like a snaky little dragon perched on Cullen’s shoulder. “Immerse yourself in it. Keep it tight. Varric is a sneaky smug little shit-stirrer. You know it. I know it. He thinks he can meddle with you, with us. Time for him to confront his feelings for that crazy woman. I mean, am I the only one who sees it? It's a real thing, isn't it? Do you think she feels the same way?"

"A love for the ages," drawled Cullen.

"Oh yes. And the whole fake-married-for-reasons is just the sort of nonsense he'd write about, anyway. You'll snare him in his own trap." 

“He’ll have to tell her at some point, anyway. She’s bound to wonder what happened to her fortune.” 

“Exactly! That’s why you should helpfully point out that all her assets were saved from the mob and the chantry. They were held in safekeeping by Varric, her legal husband, according to that very legal document that you all signed. The one with her signature, which surely wasn’t a forgery.”

“It truly was a beautiful day,” said Cullen, full of venom. “Andraste smiled upon them. I’d never seen such a happy couple.”

“That’s so sweet of you to marry your arch-enemies to each other. So good you could put your resentment behind you.” Dorian found himself grinning again, and he got up again in the saddle. “So, who was the other signature? The other chantry witness.”

And Cullen bared his teeth and said: “Brother Sebastian, that son of a bitch.”

.............

Dorian almost felt sorry for the Venatori they encountered that day. Not quite. Not really. After all, they each went well out of their way to commit to a racist and genocidal ideology. The little turds knew what was what. They wanted this. Yet reality intruded with a stunning disregard for the brave vanguard of the Elder One.

The five Venatori had been hiding out in a woodcutter’s cabin, miserable and sniping, trying to make each other boil the water or chop the wood or do any number of tasks that they each individually were too good for. So unsurprisingly, the water went unboiled, the food went unprepared, and the wood unchopped. In fact, as Dorian and Cullen stole up through the underbrush, they found the ax still wedged in the block.

The first one to die was the one who flounced dramatically out of the cabin. He was in the middle of saying something like, “I don’t need you,” to the other four, when Dorian levitated the biggest log out of the pile and sent it full speed into his forehead. 

Then he infused the body with a new spirit, and the real fun began.

You’d think the violent dead were scariest by night and gloom, but that’s for amateurs who can’t build their own sense of mood.

As the snarling body chased the other four around and around the outside of the cabin, Dorian thought he recognized the face of Aetius that little butt-sniff plagiarist from Minrathous, but he wasn’t sure, what with the swollen face and bleeding eyes and mouth.

Anyway, things took a turn when one of the Venatori tried to barricade himself inside the cabin, shutting out his other brothers, who hopped and jumped at the door, yelling, trying to push each other into the rending hands of un-Aetius the snarling dead, who was also now on fire, burning quite nicely, thanks in part to the push-pull effect of both Fireball and Barrier. 

The best part of this, in Dorian’s opinion, was Cullen had calmly ducked inside the cabin in the meanwhile. That one Venator was in for a treat.

It was around this time that the scions of New Tevinter supremacy had gotten around to figuring out the shenanigans, and one of them spotted Dorian and whipped out some magic. Another one decided he would yell out a nasty slur of all things, which only hardened Dorian’s resolve to behave as campishly as possible. He decided that just for that, he was going to put his cloak back on to make his spellcasting more dramatic.

Just then the cabin door opened and the Venatori went to rush inside, only it was Cullen, covered in blood, heaving the dead body of their traitorous compatriot. His sword had regrettably lodged itself stuck in the man’s ribcage, so a No on that, but Dorian shielded him in a barrier as he strode out to deal with the others.

He didn’t have a sword in hand, but Dorian could pinpoint the exact moment that Cullen remembered the woodcutter’s ax wedged in that chopping block.

Soon Dorian had a whole party of zombies to chase down that last mewling son of a bitch. They didn’t even run all that fast, unfortunately, what with all the missing limbs. The last Venator began to yammer on about the Dark One, the might of their god Corypheus, and so on, as if this was all a part his plan and he’d somehow gained from this a victory. As if they were actually doing him some kind of favor.

“That may have been a little gratuitous, I’ll admit that,” Dorian said afterward. “It felt good, though, didn’t it?” 

“I expected more,” said blood-drenched Cullen, still gripping the ax, his eyes wild.

“Well, hmm, I could have done a little more, conjure up some Fear spirits, cover them in bugs, that sort of thing.”

“I expected more _from them_.”

“Oh no, my dear. Haven't you learned by now? Behold the rightful masters of Thedas. Amazing, isn’t it?” 

Cullen looked almost troubled. "Yet at Haven… ”

“At Haven they had a full army, a dragon, an ancient darkspawn magister, the element of surprise, and they _still couldn’t win_.”

Cullen dipped his weapon like a crazy ax murderer who was starting to be talked down by the city guard. This was probably your average Kirkwall weekly experience. "I don't want to get cocky. I don't want to let my guard down. Yet to face them out here, it's hard to believe they're such a world-ending threat."

“I know. They have a sorcerer-god from the ancient legends, and we have a goofy glowing man-child who’s never been outside. I'm so proud of Maxwell.”

Cullen pitched the ax aside and went to get his sword and shield. “To think I was worried we’d be outmatched here by ourselves.”

“Oh, my sweet, if we die out here it will only be through embarrassment.” Dorian flicked his eyes over the singed, stinking, blood-soaked armor, and he made a face. “You’d better not get any of that on me.”

Fortunately for Cullen, they reached the lakeside camp before too many flies were attracted. Unfortunately, however, there was a bit of a misunderstanding: not about Dorian this time, thankfully, but rather about Cullen.

Dorian tried to get a word in edgewise, but as soon as Cullen showed up, drenched in blood, armor singed, he was whisked away complaining by Inquisition personnel.

“Hang on there, lad! Oooh you hang on!” cried a boisterous, big-armed and big-bellied blacksmith, and he bundled up Cullen like a little girl’s doll. “Make way!!”

Cries of “Fetch the healer!” and “No you fetch her, she’s crazy!” and Cullen shouting that he wasn’t hurt, calm down, blast it all.

“He’s not even injured!” Dorian cried, but that poor blacksmith was bound and determined to save a lad.

It was a sprawling camp of woollen tents, trader camps, mules, horses, and druffalo. People seemed to be running around everywhere anyway. Out of the muddy chaos a frizzy woman came limping up. “Out of my way, out of my way!”

She was perhaps forty, wild-haired with silver streaks, skinny as a turned-up broom, and she stood on a janky leg like a well-worn piece of furniture you have to wedge something under to make it normal. A clear Tevinter heritage showed in her face, which was marked with a few scars, and yet there was something about her… and it was this: one eye was staring off somewhere on its own and she was drinking a flask of whiskey well before noon. She could also speak through a belch, and she warned Dorian not to ‘try anything' after he had passingly convinced her that Cullen was in need of no medical attention. 

“Cross Eyed Meg is my favorite healer,” Thornton told him later, laughing with pure joy, and Dorian was horrified at the state of medicine on the shores of Lake Calenhad. He was also sorely tempted to let this woman loose on Cullen, who was presently being stripped some ways on the edge of camp. 

“They all know who he is, don’t they,” Dorian mused then, as Thornton the ranger gave him a broad smile. 

The blacksmith had lifted a barrel of water all on his own, and he was dumping its contents mightily over a nude and sputtering Inquisition commander.

Thornton just said, “It’s good for morale.”

Dorian couldn’t help but observe that the Maker in His All-Encompassing munificence had endowed Cullen with a plenteous blessing. This did not go unnoticed or unremarked-on by the other members of their religious organization, who murmured and elbowed each other. Good for morale, indeed.

When Cullen showed up to the briefing tent, he looked like a bandit, his face surly and his armor mismatched. It turned out that the camp had run out of standard uniforms, so Cullen was put into whatever pieces of armor looked like they’d fit him. He looked handsome and deadly in boiled leather. Suited him, somehow. But he didn’t like it one bit, and he was mad, like they say, as a wet hen.

Dorian sensed he was going to be in a Mood by this point, so he’d cleared up a few things with Leliana’s people first. No need for him to go trouncing them right off for something that was actually not likely to be anyone's fault.

“I told Thornton and Hall about the Ghost Knight business,” he said. “They don’t think it’s any of their agents.”

“Is it not possible it is Cillian?” murmured Sidony, as she slowly leaned in to sniff an open book. Her hands were glittering with rings. “The Arcane Warrior.” Of course she would be the one to drag her own fellows back into suspicion. Good grief, Sidony!

Hall looked eager for the facts to make sense. Brightly, the young man said, “Cillian wears heavier armor at times, and his eyes glow. Elf eyes all glow.” 

“Except I last saw him outside the commander’s office, on the day we left with Charter.” Thornton tapped gloved fingers on his bicep, his arms crossed. That's good, Thornton. Don't get your people in trouble!

Dorian pointed out, “And he'd never leave magical items on the bodies like that.”

Cullen was frowning at their makeshift map table. “I’m to understand that Cillian was tasked with matters in the Emerald Graves, along with Solas and the Inquisitor.” 

“Oh, well, that’s that, then.” Dorian smirked. “I can’t wait for Solas to explain Dalish culture to Cillian.”

Thornton laughed at that at least. He was a good-natured man, very keen on other people’s personalities, their ways, their quirks. A good looker, too, Thornton, with mixed Rivain heritage. 

They didn’t get anywhere further with the Ghost Knight business, but they all agreed it sounded like elves. Perhaps warriors from the local clans. Loot was handed off, staves, amulets, runes, and books— Dorian was sad to part with the books, especially to know that Sidony would be the one to take them back. Everyone supposed that the two of them would naturally get along, both being death mages, but the Mortalitasi was not among his favorite individuals. He just shuddered, thinking of her getting her long weird spidery hands all over his books. His babies. How gross.

At least he kept one volume with them, which was taken recently from the ax-murder camp. It really had nothing to do with magic at all, so they wouldn’t need it back yet at Skyhold. Just a collection of Chasind mythology and classical Tevinter legends.

In fact, he thought Cullen might enjoy to hear more about that, especially the local folklore. Like the story where an Avvar tribesman watches Razikale bathing in Lake Calenhad, and she strikes him blind and mad for his insolence. Or the story where Urthemiel teaches the primitives how to form stone circles, as the god of beauty, enlightenment, and architecture. Although, Dorian supposed, a Fereldan man of this age was likely not to be enthused to hear any more about Urthemiel in his lifetime.

Cullen wasn’t quite in a mood for any sort of conversation. He seemed to require periods of silence to regenerate. There wasn’t anything out of the ordinary in this, but Dorian couldn’t help but worry, given how the day had begun. They’d joked and bantered since, of course, but Dorian didn’t like how any of this had turned out. 

At least Kallisto seemed in high spirits. The roads were all mud here, and the streams rose from their banks to flow over the path. These waters would feed into the lake beyond, and the dracolisk seemed to love this environment. He was nosing around busily in the reeds, and from time to time he’d find a frog. Dorian thought he’d snap them up, but it turned out that Kallisto only liked how they hopped. You would hear a snuffling sound, a ribbit and plop, and then Kallisto’s big happy honk. On one occasion he bounded up to Dorian afterward, shoving his elbow with his warty face. The bay gelding couldn’t care, whisking his tail once or twice, but the little black mare bolted ahead a few yards before Cullen soothed her.

By late afternoon, they reached the remnants of a town called Belenna. It was a much-reduced lakeside settlement of fishers and farmers, and at the boundary stones, Dorian saw the banner of its liege-lord. This must be a freehold pledged to the Barris family, Cullen’s former bann. 

They took up at the local inn, which had no name, but its weathered sign showed a black dragon looking into a hand-mirror. When it was a larger community, the inn at Belenna had two wings, but the western side was in disrepair. Its entire roof collapsed there. The eastern wing looked better on the inside than out, however, and Dorian thought it had some charm. Red and orange dwarven rugs on wooden floors, a roaring hearth, and herbs drying all in the lower rafters. An elk skull stared down from above the fireplace, and it possessed an impressive span of antlers. There were runic patterns painted over it, too, some sort of tribal Avvar or Chasind design.

Three sisters ran the inn, or, rather, they lived there, and raised goats and chickens in the outer yard. From time to time they’d get a traveler. They eyed Dorian with deep suspicion, but Cullen was able to talk them around. The eldest girl knew Cullen’s sister, Mia, who apparently was some sort of handful.

“There’s been bandits on the roads,” the eldest said. “We want to open proper by the summer… but with the way it’s been going… ”

“You won’t have to worry about bandits while we’re here, I promise you that,” Dorian assured her, and she looked at him as though she had just heard a goat speak to her.

Cullen put his gloved hand on Dorian’s shoulder, then, and he said, “The Venatori hate Dorian for helping us, and he’s risked his life to join our fight. He’s my friend.”

He figured he ought to hate how that needed explaining at every turn, as though he should wear a sign about his neck— The Good Tevinter. Yet he couldn’t seem to summon the energy.

They took out two rooms on the upper floor, and Dorian treated himself to a bath. Cullen let him have the tub first; he’d had his own impromptu dunking and lakeside splashing earlier. Despite the first hot water in days, and the feeling of grime washing away off his body, Dorian couldn't enjoy it. 

They hardly spoke to each other, even at mealtime, and Dorian wondered what it meant. Perhaps he shouldn’t have riled him that morning. Perhaps there was a reason he couldn’t bring himself to share. A lyrium high was better than any climax he’d ever experience. He was holding out for the Hero of Ferelden and/or the Champion of Kirkwall. He preferred redheads. He was saving himself for the Maker.

Or did something happen, something terrible, when the blood mages overran Kinloch Circle and only one templar was left alive?

Dorian suddenly recalled the desolate look on Cullen’s face when they last spoke in his room, when Dorian had asked about his nightmares. And then the self-deprecating, weary way he’d said: _If you must have an inkling, I’m sure you will find out soon enough from the nasty gossip in the mages tower._

With overwhelming revulsion, Dorian wondered if he’d just teased a man with some lingering massive trauma. Was that it, was that true? He really should have considered that before launching into his little game that morning.

“Why are you making that face?” Cullen asked him, and Dorian almost jumped, like a guilty child being caught out.

They were in the middle of eating leek and potato soup before the fire in the lower room. Dorian swiftly masked his expression and replied, “I couldn’t remember if I’d fed Kallisto.”

“You wouldn’t have to wonder. If you hadn’t, he’d be in here at your elbow.”

Dorian flickered the expected smile. He picked at his soup for a moment more— it really was better than he thought, and tasted of rosemary and thyme. Then he said, carefully, “I’m sorry I needled you this morning. You have handled this much better than I could have expected from anyone, and I’ve been a brat who can’t get his way.”

Cullen responded warmly to his tone, and he gazed upon him with soft brown eyes that looked gold in the firelight. “You have nothing to apologize for.” 

“I hope that if you needed to talk about anything… that you would feel comfortable telling me.” 

His expression slowly turned unreadable but it was not unkind. "Thank you, Dorian." 

Dorian barely heard him. He continued, “You said you wanted me to be happy. I thank you for that… and I hope that you can find happiness too.” 

Cullen smiled without humor, as though Dorian had said something impossibly naive. “I suggest you get some rest. We aren’t far from what remains of Honnleath village, but our search may last the day.”


	7. Chapter 7

Cullen slept so late that Dorian had to check he wasn’t dead. They had a useless exchange through the door, which was difficult for Dorian to understand for two reasons: first, that Cullen mumbled thickly when he was like this, and second, that he was talking in his sleep. He seemed to think he was still a templar recruit in the barracks, being pestered by some other lad, and he rolled over heavily and told Dorian that Alistair will help him. Go ask Alistair. I’m tired.

Holding a plate of his breakfast, and laughing to himself, Dorian said, “Don’t you worry, you go back to sleep. I just saw Alistair.” 

He had no idea who this young man was, or who he had been, but he’d heard a sleeping Cullen talk to him before. ‘Put that down, don’t. You’ll break it.’ Or ‘Alistair no.’ It sounded like he couldn’t quite get his shit together, this Alistair. Dorian hoped the fellow was all right somewhere, leading some blessedly boring normal life with a wife and child, and not as a shambling red templar in the army of Corypheus.

Dorian left his plate outside the door and decided to have a morning to himself. He did take a rasher of bacon off Cullen’s plate however and feed it to Kallisto, who was overjoyed to see him down in the stables. The stableboy yelped and covered his eyes, so sure that the dracolisk would bite Dorian’s hand off. These people had never seen such a creature before, but it didn’t take long for the boy to warm up to the creature, and Dorian let him pet Kallisto’s pebbly hide.

The dracolisk wasn’t yet ready to ride. The bay gelding would have to put up with Dorian for a few days more. In truth, Dorian was feeling generous toward the glueball bastard, and he thought he’d return him to Dennet to see if the daughter might want him back. Dorian was resolved to make a permanent friend in Kallisto, and vice versa: the dracolisk adored him. 

Dorian strolled around town to have himself a look. Kallisto went with him, bounding along the flat stretches and trotting back to him. There weren’t as many people as the buildings would suggest, and he hardly saw a man or woman over the age of forty. Perhaps the old and infirm had all died in the Blight, unable to keep up, or committing self-sacrifice to give the young their chance.

The true damage of the Blight would take generations to heal. He thought of the three sisters of the inn. They would have been barely more than children when they were forced to flee. Dorian felt a touch of melancholy coming on, and he did his best to be as gracious and kind to these people, who mostly met him with suspicion. He supposed it didn’t help that he was an obvious foreigner, done up with jewelry and rich clothes patterned with snakes, accompanied no less by a fantastic dragon horse. 

Although he was loathe to wander too far from the inn, Dorian wanted to have a closer look at some stone monuments they saw when they first rode in. He was beginning to like the look of the dog-faced boundary stones, but there was a truly interesting megalith that presided over a lakeside promontory. Perhaps the ancient tribesmen dragged their sacrifices here. Perhaps Tevinters like himself, who had strayed too far from the imperial road.

The waters were brown from runoff, though Dorian saw the darker green beyond the mix. An armada of waterfowl floated further out; he didn’t know what they were called here. It was good to breathe in the clear lake air, and he stood there for a time, taking in a deep lungful. Kallisto leaned his shoulder against him, and Dorian looped an arm around the dracolisk’s neck. Lovingly the dracolisk turned his head, fixed Dorian with his weird reptilian eye, and announced, _nonk nonk._

Cullen woke somewhere around noon. He was aghast at having slept through so much daylight, but Dorian found himself in no hurry. Besides, to look at Cullen standing there disheveled, curly hair sticking up, his face in need of a shave, Dorian knew the poor man needed to sleep as much as he had.

“Don’t you worry, Kallisto and I had a fine jaunt through the village. I also read through more of a book we recovered.” 

Clearly embarrassed, and grateful for a new topic, Cullen caught up with his plate and asked, “Did you find anything pertinent to the Venatori plans?” 

“Haha, their _plans_. I do love how you use that word.” Dorian leaned back with his mug of tea. He didn't think Cullen would care to hear about classical Tevinter lore right now, or the little book of folktales that he had found. More to the point: “The Venatori don’t seem to have any singular goal. They’re all backstabbing little shits who never think anything through. I’d say that there are perhaps a half-dozen little plots going on individually, but there's nothing cohesive as a group. Perhaps there's something new to find at Honnleath, but otherwise, it’s just as we saw in the dark vision. Chaos and pure stupidity.”

“I would have thought they’d try to make an attempt on Kinloch tower,” Cullen mused.

Dorian smiled. “But didn’t I hear you say that the crown had posted a garrison there? An ancient fortress in the middle of a lake? That sounds like too much effort for the Venatori. They want an easy win, you know. They don’t want to have to actually work for it!”

“You capture them so well.” Cullen smirked at him. 

“I know you meant that as a swipe at me, lazy old Dorian, but I studied with some of these people. I know how they are.” 

.............

They rode through a yard of squabbling chickens on the way out of town, Kallisto watching mournfully from his stable stall. Perhaps a league out, the road began to give way into mud, and then not even that. It became a thin path worn by rams’ hooves, and the wild forest pressed in around them. The settlements to the west of Belenna had all but disappeared. 

Cullen kept the lake on their right for a landmark. Its waters produced the only sound, but from time to time, birds would call out and other birds would answer. A woodpecker rattled somewhere. At one point, a fennec stood in the path and watched their approach. Perhaps it was unused to seeing people. Its little front paw was in the air, and its huge dark eyes appraised them. Then one big ear splayed back, and it bounced away into the underbrush.

After a while, they reached a mass of vines around a stunted tree, and Dorian realized it was an old signpost covered over with Crystal Grace. Well, Fiona might like that for the Skyhold garden. He took a cutting while Cullen gazed off into the forest. “This way,” he said.

It wasn’t until Cullen dismounted that Dorian realized they had arrived. The boundary stone was engulfed in ivy, and the first few homes were only bare foundations. New trees came up everywhere, through old farmland, through fields, through the ruins of houses.

Cullen walked his mare through a mix of alder and birch, headed slowly toward the remains of a building. There wasn’t much left of it but the stone arch of a doorway. Some bricks. Rubble. Cullen stroked the mare’s neck, as if to reassure her, though Dorian knew he was the one who needed comfort. He could see from Cullen’s face whose home this had been.

Dorian swung down from the saddle and let his bay wander. He hoped the horse wouldn’t get into the tangles of stripweed he’d seen growing in the ditches. He went to Cullen, keeping his distance, but he wanted to make himself available just in case. 

Cullen stood for a time by two piles of stone stacked together in the Chasind fashion. Then he knelt and closed his eyes. His prayer was quiet, and it was private, so Dorian let him be. Dorian remembered how he loved his parents once, before their betrayal, and yet, somehow he still did love them. He still loved them in some confused, unhappy way, and he wished he could make sense of it. Shouldn't he forgive them, or shouldn't he stand up for himself? He knew very little of Cullen’s mother and father, but he couldn’t imagine that they would ever turn him out.

Dorian went to investigate elsewhere on the property. In time, Cullen joined him, red-eyed yet alert. He met Dorian’s questing gaze, smiled thinly, and said: “It was good of the bann’s people to mark out stones for the lost.” 

“I’m sorry, Cullen.”

“Thank you, but there’s no need to be. Our family was fortunate compared to others. My brothers and sisters all survived.” 

“Do you think people will live here again?” 

“I hope so.”

Dorian surveyed the rubble. “There’s not much left here,” he said. “It looks as though a century has passed here, and not a decade. Where is everything?”

“Villagers must have salvaged material for building,” Cullen mused. “It’s easier to reclaim than to quarry and shape new stone.”

“Where do you think we’ll find Wilhelm’s house?” Dorian looked doubtfully around them. 

“To the northwest we’ll find the village square. We’re on the outskirts now.” Cullen frowned. “Though I must admit… I’m surprised to see the state of things.”

Had they come all this way for nothing? No. Not nothing. They had discovered that the Venatori had no singular great plan. They discovered just how weak and foolish they were. How quarrelsome, how disorganized. 

And Cullen had found some closure, perhaps.

They rode north through an overgrown farmland, where saplings of all sorts abounded. The sun was lower in the trees, and they would have to turn back soon before the dark. They could always return tomorrow, given their late start, but something told Dorian they wouldn’t need more time. They could always task Leliana’s people with a second look, but there was little to see here.

Yet, this was important to Cullen, and no results were still results. He knew that from research, after all. At least the Venatori hadn’t found some wicked mad-wizard project left behind by the village apostate. It turned out that little remained of Honnleath at all, only ruins and memories.

“There was a golem here,” Cullen said, as they made a loop around the weedy village square. He pointed a gloved hand toward an empty pedestal, which had cracked in half. “A dwarven war golem. Wilhelm found it, and activated it somehow in the old days. It fought in the war against Orlais.”

“I would normally find it suspicious that the pedestal is empty,” Dorian noted, “but I’ve heard a certain golem used to travel in the company of the Heroes of Ferelden.” 

Cullen smiled, and then he dismounted to approach a pile of rubble where a building had fallen in on itself. “This is where Wilhelm lived.”

“Hmmm, it’s all a touch underwhelming.” Dorian watched as Cullen clambered up along the stones, attempting to budge a big chunk of brick and mortar. “You’re going to strain something.”

“There was said to be… a library underneath his house.” Cullen put his shoulder into the rubble and pushed. “A laboratory,” he grunted. 

“Perhaps at one time.” Dorian frowned. “If they still exist, I don’t see how we can reach them. Certainly not before dark.”

“This can’t be it.” Cullen took off his bandit helmet and rubbed his sweaty curls. “But perhaps the bann’s people already took everything worth taking. And the Circle could have sent its people out here.” 

“I suppose we wouldn’t know, would we?”

Cullen shook his head. “There weren’t many survivors from the original Circle, and it was only beginning to be rebuilt when the rebellions took place." He pulled on his helmet once more.

Dorian beckoned him. “Here, stand by me. I want to try something.” With some reluctance, but understanding what he meant to do, Cullen climbed out of the rubble and walked to Dorian’s side.

Dorian handed his staff to Cullen with an “if you please,” and then he formed a scooping, swooping gesture to energize the stones. The rubble sizzled with magic, glowed, and raised up piece by piece and chunk by chunk into the air. 

“It’s all caved in,” Cullen said with unmasked disappointment.

“Do you want to take a closer look?” Dorian was reasonably sure he could hold the stones aloft long enough for Cullen to pick around.

Thankfully, however, he didn’t have to test his control of so many objects at once. It wasn't quite his specialty. Cullen only shook his head and said, “I’ve seen all I need to.”

Dorian let the stones drop, and the rubble fell with a massive crash. He swore and reached for his staff. “So sorry, I’m sure your horse didn't appreciate that.”

At least Cullen had the foresight to tether her to a birch some ways off across the darkening meadow. She was dancing about, unhappy, ears shooting back and forth. Just as they reached the animals, however, a crack of energy shot up in the distance. Magic. A signal? 

It was followed shortly by another pop of light, green this time. He couldn’t judge how far away.

“They must have heard that crash,” Cullen whispered.

Shit!

“Please don’t mention this to Lady Vivienne.” Dorian cocked his head back toward the village. “Shall we go have a look? Venatori perhaps?”

Cullen loosened the reins, and let his mare go. In the previous encounters, it was best to let the horses roam to protect themselves. They’d never gotten far, and, anyway, with Dorian’s wisp, the two of them could see in the dark and find their mounts again.

They went carefully back round the meadow, moving through the cover of the treeline. The first of the fireflies began to wink and glow in the field around them. There was a long moment before the sizzle and snap of energy cracked again, somewhere distant, and Dorian couldn’t judge if it sounded closer than before. 

Then a hazy gleam of motion flashed in the village. They drew up behind a tree as a herd of rams bounded out of the northwest edge of town, fleeing across the village proper and bolting past them into the woods beyond.

“They’re running away,” Cullen whispered. "The mages, the Venatori, whatever that was, they're just past the village."

“We can withdraw as well, if you think it’s best. There’s still time.”

Cullen snorted. “No. I’m not afraid of them. Wait until we spot them, and then cast Barrier.”

“Ooh I was hoping you’d say that,” Dorian purred. “Let’s give them a little welcome to Honnleath.”

Choosing stealth over magic light, they returned to the village by the faint glow of one moon. The second had hidden herself away in a dark phase. Cullen moved well in light armor, sleek as a bandit, his helmed head ducked and his sword at the ready.

Dorian expected to find Venatori milling about the village square. He’d thought they’d be skulking around, bitching and complaining. Maybe one of them might summon a demon this time, and maybe— Dorian hoped— they would lose control of it and then he and Cullen would get a good show.

Not this time. No.

_It_ was standing on the pedestal in the center of the town. A dark shape, broad and armored. Huge gauntlets held a massive sword whose point rested on the ground. Its horned helmet gave away nothing.

Another figure crouched on the lintel of a ruined archway. 

Dorian knew they were staring right at him. No use now to remain in darkness. He lit a wisp and sent it out across the field for illumination.

The magic glow revealed an armored giant and a lithe form in hooded leather. The light of the wisp reflected in the glow of their eyes, an elven green-glow for the hooded one, and a weird wrong light in the slit of the giant's visor. A white glow.

“Barrier! Be ready,” Cullen gritted, and Dorian heard an urgency in his voice— the stark realization that this encounter would be far more lethal than any other. Dorian brought a barrier over them both, suffusing them in the blue light of its protection.

In a single smooth motion the Ghost Knight swept his blade-tip off the ground. The sword rotated in his hand in an upward stroke. In a blaze of momentary light, golden runes ran the length of the weapon, thrummed with deep sound, and disappeared. It was a sword of rare and ancient magic.

The lithe form slithered off the ruins, and they lost sight of it.

Then, worst of all, _it happened_. The Ghost Knight raised his left gauntlet and made an elegant motion at odds with his size. At the turning of its mailed fist, a seizing pain gripped Dorian, and he fell against his staff for support.

The Barrier dissolved to nothing. The wisp died out. Darkness swallowed the village. No magic would come to Dorian, and his head swam with vertigo. He heard Cullen say his name and something else, the words thick and choppy through a dizzy haze. _Templar abomination!_

Then glowing eyes raced toward them.


End file.
